


Next Door

by hayvocado



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Bucky Barnes & Winter Soldier are Different Personalities, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky's your neighbor, Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, I meant it when I said slow burn, Pre-Captain America: Civil War, Protective!Bucky, Protectiveness, Reader Insert, Slow Burn, Your boyfriend is terrible, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayvocado/pseuds/hayvocado
Summary: You haven't exactly been in the best situation these last few years, what with your boyfriend being abusive, your job being hell, and you only having one friend in the terrifying city that is New York.  One day you literally fall into the arms of a sweet stranger who doesn't seem to be much of a talker, and for whatever reason, you can't help but feel safe around him.





	1. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another fight with your boyfriend, you leave the apartment, about to go on a walk to clear your head, when you literally run face first into a strange man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is totally self indulgent and I use writing to vent out my frustrations and stuff so please take this with a grain of salt! I plan to keep this really realistic so know that I'm not romanticizing any of the abuse or anything along the way, just trying to accurately write an abuse victim's head space. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Talk to me on my tumblr if you'd like (I'm always ready for prompts/requests) [@lovebiotes](http://lovebiotes.tumblr.com/)

He hit you again.

 

You had come home late from work, covering one of your coworkers’ shifts—her son had a fever and the babysitter couldn’t miss curfew—and he caught you at the door.  He had grabbed you up by your hair like he always did, and he threw you down to the floor like he always did. He kicked you in your ribs and yelled disgusting words at you, like he always did.

 

He had grabbed you up into his arms, sobbing and apologizing, which he always did.  He cried about how sorry he was and how much he loved you, like he always did. You forgave him, like you always did.

 

He had gone to bed, angry, smelling of alcohol, his shirt stained with red thanks to your nosebleed, which he had caused.  He had slammed the bedroom door, leaving you a crying, bruised and bloodied mess on your kitchen floor, curled in on yourself and shivering.  You let out shaky, shallow breaths, doing whatever you could to not further injure your bruised side and no-doubt broken rib.

 

Dragging yourself up from the tiled floor, gasping and wheezing, you stand fully, staying still for a few moments while you do your best to catch your breath.  _Everything hurts_. Numbly, you grab up a hoodie off of the back of the couch and walk into the laundry room to snatch up some shorts and undergarments. You hobble into your tiny apartment’s bathroom and turn on the shower as hot as possible.  

 

You allow yourself to bask in the peace that settles over you as the hellfire water pelts your sore body, and you watch as your blood pirouettes around the drain before dancing its way down, down, away from you.  Begrudgingly, you gingerly remove yourself from the shower and pull on the underwear and clothing you’d gathered beforehand, refusing to look into the mirror. You refused to acknowledge whatever marks he’d left on you.

 

Staying as quiet as humanly possible, you tiptoe your way out of the bathroom, down the hallway, to the main room.  You grab up your keys, locking them in your fist to keep their mind-jarring rattling trapped within the palm of your hand.  Silently you open the door, and slip out into the main hallway.

 

You honestly had no true destination in mind, but you definitely just needed to get out of that suffocating space, full of the smell of him, and the associated pain that came with his presence.  Limping, you slowly make your way to the elevator, pressing the down button, and waiting to hear the _ding_ of its arrival.

 

When it comes to a stop on your floor, you barely even look up from the ground before moving to step through the doors—a mistake, it seems.

 

You run face first into someone, hitting your head on their chest hard enough to cause you to lose your balance and begin to fall backwards.  You let out a surprised yelp as you tilt back, arms already flailing to catch yourself, but before you make contact with the ground, you feel an arm around your waist, stopping you from falling.  You look up with wide eyes just to be met with another pair of shocked eyes, a confused expression painting a handsome face.

 

“Uhhh…” your mouth opens and closes dumbly before you gather your wits to speak.  “S-sorry I didn’t know you w—Sorry.” You scramble for a moment to collect yourself and reposition your feet back underneath you so you could stand and address the man in front of you.  

 

Once standing, you see that the man is… quite attractive.  He has bright ocean blue eyes partially concealed behind a curtain of wavy brown hair that is just long enough to brush his broad shoulders, set atop a wide chest that tapered into a lean waist.  _Wow_ , you think to yourself. _He’s practically a supermodel_.

 

“Are you okay?”  He asks, his deep, honey-coated voice snapping you out of your trance and you jump a bit at how sudden the noise is in the still hallway.  

 

“Y-yes I’m sorry I’m just... Sorry,” you chuckle a bit and sweep your hair away from your face.  “I didn’t see you. Sorry.” You avert your eyes to the ground in an attempt to avoid his intense gaze, and step to the side out of his way so he can properly exit the elevator.

 

He steps out and to the side of you, never breaking his gaze.  You glance up at him and he tilts his head to the side a bit, not hiding how his eyes rake over you from head to toe.  He’s looking at you in a much different manner than you’re used to being looked at by men. It isn’t lustfully or even judgingly, but more as if he’s trying to analyze you.  You shift under his stare and avoid his eyes, once again fixating on a crack in the hallway tile.

 

“You say that a lot.”  He remarks matter of factly, squinting at you a bit.  You can’t help but notice the slight curl of a Russian accent in his voice.  It’s barely there, but you find yourself intrigued by it.

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“‘Sorry’.  You apologize a lot.”  You tuck some of your hair behind your ear and clear your throat nervously.

 

“Yeah sorry I uh… Sorry.”  You can feel your face heating up at how dumb you must seem.  _Apologizing for apologizing too much, wow._

 

He chuckles softly, and you have to admit you like the sound a bit, but it does nothing to lessen your embarrassment.  If anything, your blush deepens, and you can even feel the tips of your ears turning red. Nodding he turns around and begins to walk away.  You finally notice the brown grocery bags in his hand.

 

He somehow managed to balance three in just his left arm.  He reaches into his pocket with his right hand, pulling out keys and going to the door just next to yours.  _My neighbor? Weird… I’ve never seen him around before._

 

Without another word he opens his door and steps into his apartment, closing it behind him.

 

 _Weird._   You think to yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing that I've written in forever (I counted and it's been over two years since I've written this much and even longer since I've posted anything) so sorry if it's rusty. Please tell me how you all like it <3


	2. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When leaving for work the next morning, you see the man again, and you'd be lying if you said he didn't brighten up your day--no matter how much work sucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos on last chapter omg I love you all so much I hope you like this chapter!
> 
> (I was looking for a song that would fit this chapter nicely and I found _James_ by MGMT which seemed cute to go with it, the lyrics are sweet)

You see the man again when you’re leaving for work the next morning, tiptoeing as always, so as not to wake the sleeping beast in your small apartment.  You’re donning your admittedly shameful work uniform: a lowly buttoned cut white shirt and a small black skirt.  Your work at the bar required you to wear a pretty scandalous uniform, seeing as your boss was a creep to all of his female employees and you made more than half your income off of tips.  _Fuck capitalism._

 

Yanking the hem of the skirt past the underside of your ass with one hand, you lock the front door with the other, sighing and readjusting your purse on your shoulder.  Straightening up, you turn to walk towards the elevator, surprised when you see him leaning against the wall just to the left of the doors, waiting for the car to arrive.

 

“Oh, hey!”  You greet him cheerfully, careful not to raise your voice too much at this time of morning.  No one’s too enthusiastic to see anyone this early on in the day.  He turns to you, his hair swishing over one shoulder as he does, eyes widening with recognition when he sees you.

 

“Hello,” he says quietly, nodding his head in greeting.  You move to stand near him before the elevator, a small smile on your face.  

 

“How are you doing today?”  You tuck your keys into your purse, and pull your phone out, briefly checking the lock screen to see just how late you’re going to be to this morning’s shift.  _Shit, Cason's gonna throw a fit._

 

“Fine.  You?”  He didn’t seem to be one for wordy conversations, but you didn’t pick up on any clear red flags that he absolutely did not want to be talking to you, which was good.  The elevator arrives with a light _ding_ and the man steps aside to let you enter first.  Your cheeks redden a bit and you smile, stepping in and pressing the button to the first floor.  He follows you, moving to stand at your left.

 

“I’m good!  I’m on my way to work now,” you pause to glance at your phone screen again, grimacing slightly.  “I’m kind of late but at least I’m still going.”  You huff a self-deprecating chuckle to yourself, looking up at the man and seeing the slight curl of a smirk on his lips.  He isn’t looking at you, but at the doors of the elevator, though you could tell that he was paying attention.  You could almost feel all of his focus being directed your way through the edges of his peripheral vision.

 

The short ride is silent between the two of you, the only sound being the metallic whooshing of the elevator car making its way from the third floor down to the first.  When the doors finally slide open, the man takes a step back, signaling you to get out first.  You nod and smile to yourself as you step out, the tips of your ears warming up yet again.  

 

You are moving towards the main double doors, hand already raised to push one open, when the man nonchalantly trots in front of you to open it for you, moving to the side to motion you through and lowering his head a bit, almost sheepishly.

 

“Oh!” you pause, eyes wide.  “Th-thank you,” you mumble as you move past him out onto the busy streets of New York.

 

“You’re welcome.”  Another quick nod.

 

You begin to walk eastward to make your way to the restaurant before you pause and turn around.  “Um, sorry,” you blush and look up at him to see he’s already gazing down at you.  “I, uh… I never got your name.”  He raises an eyebrow slightly and shifts a bit, glancing up behind you and even looking over his shoulder a bit, almost nervously.

 

“Um… You can call me James,” he speaks softly, and you almost don’t even hear him over the sound of a honking car passing by.

 

“James?”  He nods, dark waves of hair swishing about his face as he does so.  “That’s a lovely name,” you say it almost without even thinking, and you blush when you see the corner of his mouth tick up again into that not-quite-smile.  

 

“Thank you…” he pauses and his words tilt up into a question, waiting for you to fill the gap.  You blush again and say your name softly.  He nods, smirk growing the tiniest bit.  “Thank you, Y/N.”

 

 _I like how he says it_ , you think to yourself, and your face reddens even more.

 

“Um… I should…” your hand shoots up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—a nervous habit.  “I need to get to work but I’ll see you around, James!”  You wave a quick goodbye, which he returns, causing another wave of heat to take over your face.  You quickly shuffle off towards the restaurant before he can see your blush again.

 

_He’s really something._

 

***

 

You make it to work finally, seventeen minutes late, and you can already hear your boss shouting your name.  _Shit, shit, shit._

“Where is she?”  He thunders from one of the back rooms.  

 

You immediately run over to Rosalie, one of your coworkers, and pretty much your only friend.  She’s already shaking her head at you eyes wide in panic.  “He’s really mad babe,”  She reaches to take your purse to place it in the workroom for you, and you thank her breathlessly, tying on an apron and grabbing up a towel to begin wiping down tables.

 

“Y/N!  Where in sweet fuck have you been?!  You’re nearly twenty minutes late!”  You’re already nodding, quickly shuffling over to the nearest empty table, wiping it down and collecting dishes and glasses.

 

“I’m s-sorry Cason, I got a late start today, it w-won’t happen again.”  Internally, you cringe at yourself, agitated at the arrival of your stutter.  The bin in your arms is now full of dishes and you throw the dirtied dish towel over the edge of it, beginning to move to the kitchen to place it near the sinks.

 

“I don’t fuckin’ think so.  You’re on dish duty for the rest of the day.  Benny!  You’re on tables.”  You gasp and spin on your heel, eyes wide.

 

“N-no, Cason, you can’t!  Half my pay is in tips!”  He ignores you, looking straight over your head at Benny, one of the bus boys, and snapping his fingers at the scrawny teenager.  “Cason, please, rent is d-due this week.”  Your boss turns to you and narrows his eyes, bending down a bit to be more at your level.

 

“I don’t give a damn if you have to pay for your daddy’s open-heart surgery, Y/N.  You show up late, you get demoted.”  He speaks through gritted teeth and you begin to feel tears prickling at the backs of your eyes.  You nod, and turn around, yanking off your apron and tossing it to Benny, and moving to pull on the rubber elbow-length gloves at the side of the sink.  “Do better, Y/N.”  Cason remarks before turning and leaving through the swinging wood doors.

 

Sniffling, you begin to work arduously at cleaning off all the glasses and plates, doing the best you can to keep your tears locked up.  _I can’t cry at work, I’ll just wait ‘till I get home_.  You sigh to yourself, knowing that it’s a lie. 

 

Ethan hated when you cried...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I counted and our beloved Bucky Barnes has spoken less than 30 words so far. Don't worry though, there might be some fluffy/heartfelt conversations coming ;) Let me know how you all liked this chapter, I live for feedback <3


	3. Wait it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You slip out of your apartment after an exhausting night of dealing with your boyfriend's rage, and you happen to run into James again--not literally, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter's title is from _Wait It Out_ by VRWRK)

That night he was upset again.  

 

He probably had another rough day searching for work, which you could understand.  _I just wish he wouldn’t take it all out on me._  He didn’t hit you, thank God, but he yelled quite a bit and he threw some things.  _He didn’t throw them at me though. He was nicer._

 

You sigh as you sink into the couch after you hear the bedroom door close.  _He’s getting better._ You hear something in your head laughing at you and calling you a fool, but you ignore it, shaking your head.  _He is._

 

Your stomach rumbles loudly, and you gasp as you realize you haven’t eaten all day.  Jumping up, you pad over to the fridge, checking to see if there were any leftovers from night before last.  When you see that all you have is less than a glass of milk and some bread, you sigh dejectedly, banging your head against the refrigerator door in frustration.

 

_Guess I’ll just get something from the diner._

 

Grabbing your keys up off of the counter, you slide on your sneakers and throw on a jacket before slipping out the front door.  While locking your door, you look up to see the man—James—leaving his apartment as well.

 

“Hi,” you smile at him and you can feel that it’s a bit weaker than it could have been.  _It's been a long day._   He glances up at you and does that barely-a-smile thing.

 

“Hello.”  You’ve come to the decision that you like his voice.  It’s a bit heavier than it was earlier on in the day, probably a result of a long work day or something, but you can’t deny that it has a lulling quality to it.

 

You both walk towards the elevator and you watch as he presses the button with his right hand before taking a step back.  There’s a moment of awkward silence hanging in the air for a few moments before you decide to speak.

 

“So where you headed?  It’s pretty late, yeah?”  You say it before you realize how borderline invasive it was, not to mention hypocritical considering you’re leaving your house at a quarter to midnight as well.

 

“Food.  I was hungry.”  He raises a brow at you, silently tossing the question back your way.

 

“Oh, yeah, me too,” you blush a bit and look down.  He hums in acknowledgement, and you echo him, aware that he wasn’t really one for talking more than actually necessary.  _Of course he would be the strong and silent type. A fantastic foil for my talkative obnoxious personality._ A thick silence hangs in the air between you two, and you shift a bit, feeling kind of awkward.

 

After a moment of fighting with yourself, you decide to say something else.  “Um do y-” You’re interrupted by the sound of the elevator’s arrival, and you immediately chicken out, abandoning your train of thought.  James steps back motioning for you to enter before him, and you do, eyes glued to the ground.

 

When you don’t press a floor button, he reaches in front of you to press “1” for you both, and you blush even deeper.  

 

“What were you saying?”

 

You glance up at him and see that he is once again focused on the doors of the elevator, though you felt his focus directed at you regardless.

 

“Oh um I… I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me to grab a bite to eat.  I know a pretty good diner about a block away and they have 24/7 breakfast. I dunno about you but I’m kinda craving bacon,” you trail off a bit when you catch yourself on the verge of rambling and stare at the ground.  _Of course he’s gonna say no, I’m probably weirding him out._

 

“Okay,” he says gently, and you glance up to see that he’s got the tiniest hint of a grin on his face, eyes glinting with amusement.  You nod and feel your face warm up and stare at your feet for the rest of the elevator ride.

 

***

 

“The omelets here are really good, if you’re into that,” you remark lowly, careful to not break the atmosphere of the dark and quiet diner.

 

James requested that you both sit in a booth in the back of the small establishment, his back to the wall. He had been tense when the waiter asked for your drink orders, and he’d waited until you said yours and smiled at the waiter before he spoke his.  He also watched the young man walk off until he went around behind the counter before he redirected his attention towards the menu.

 

“Sounds good,” he replies, lowering the menu and folding it nicely before him.  He looks up at you, an eyebrow raised. “You?”

 

You’re beginning to get used to his one word questions and clipped responses.  It’s kind of weird, because usually people are only short with you when they’re upset, but you can tell he just really doesn’t have very much to say.  You shrug and mumble “I think I’ll just go for bacon and eggs.”

 

He nods and leans back in the booth, resting his left arm against the back of the seat.  You see that he has on a leather glove, and your brow crinkles a bit in confusion, but before you can ask about it, the waiter is back, notepad in hand, ballpoint pen hovering above it.  “What’ll it be for you all tonight?”

 

You open your mouth but James cuts you off before you can speak.  “Bacon and eggs for the lady and a cheese omelet for me,” his smooth voice fills up the space more than yours ever could.  

 

The waiter writes down the order and nods, obviously on autopilot he asks “Anything else?”  James looks to you, eyebrows raised inquisitively, and you shake your head no, a bit speechless.

 

“That’s all,” he says, taking up your menu as well as his and handing them to the waiter.

 

Once the young man walks off, you shift your attention out the window, watching the few people walking by and the cars in the streets.  The traffic and crosswalk lights cast an eerie neon glow onto the pavement, almost highlighting the emptiness of everything, emphasizing the quiet.  You feel James’ eyes on you, so you turn back to him, a soft smile on your lips.

 

“So uh… How long have you lived in our building?  I can’t believe we’re neighbors and we’ve only just met this week.”  He huffs a small laugh and tosses his left arm onto the backrest of the booth again.

 

“Less than a month.  I don’t leave the apartment much.”  His attention snaps to your right and he tenses up slightly.  The sudden change in his behavior causes your heart rate to pick up, and you nervously glance over your shoulder just in time to see someone walk into the diner, the bell above the door announcing their entrance.  It was just a young woman, probably in for a cup of coffee before a late night shift or something, so you turn back around, releasing the breath you’d been holding.

 

James is still looking in her general direction, but you can see he’s less tense than he was a moment ago.  He turns his attention back towards you and sees that you’re unsettled. He softens his expression and apologizes.  “Sorry. ’M jumpy sometimes.”

 

You nod, understanding.  “It’s alright. My dad used to be like that, he was a Marine.  He liked to sit with his back to the walls too. He liked being able to see the whole room,” you chuckle gently recalling a gentle memory of your dad, and doing your best not to feel saddened at the thought of him.

 

“Used to?”  James leans forward a bit, gray eyes gentle.

 

“Uh, yeah.  He died about six years back.  Kinda the reason I dropped everything and moved to New York, I guess.”  You drag your finger through the condensation on the side of your water glass and avoid James’ eyes, though you can feel his gaze burning into the top of your head.

 

“I’m sorry.”  

 

“It’s fine!”  You flash him a tight smile, and look back out the window, watching people and cars move through and around the streets.  The space between you two feels uncomfortably small and full of static until the waiter comes back with your food.

 

The two of you eat in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so difficult to write because I wanted to add so much more but I felt like leaving the simple interactions alone was best. We love a good shishter shlow burn. Lmk what you all think! <3
> 
> p.s. I promise there's some more dialogue heavy chapters coming up I'm just trying to build up to them in a way that won't seem rushed pls don't hate me qwq


	4. Ease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a stressful day at work, your co-worker and best friend takes you out for drinks. Let's see what kind of trouble your tipsy ass can get into, with or without the mysterious Mister James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen... I really loved writing this chapter and you wanna know why?? Because I had to google pictures of Sebastian Stan smirking so I could make sure I was describing Buckaroo's mannerisms correctly and let me tell you.... A bitch was ~sweating~
> 
> (Title from _Ease_ by Troye Sivan)

It was another painfully hectic day at work.

 

It was the playoffs and all of the locals loved to use the bar’s televisions to watch the games with buddies, especially the betting types.  The extra people, as well as their loud yelling and boisterous behavior, had you a bit shaky and anxious the whole evening. You dropped nearly four orders, got about twice as many wrong, and you had to work super late, _again_.

 

Rosalie caught you at about half past midnight grabbing up your coat and purse out of the employee lockers.  The game went into overtime and you were stuck for an extra almost 45 minutes past your promised end of shift.

 

“Hey, hon,” she lays a gentle hand on your shoulder as she brushes past you to her own locker to get her things to leave.  “You okay? I saw you were having kind of a difficult night with your last few orders.” Her eyes are gentle as she looks at you, and you can feel the concern radiating off of her.  

 

Rosalie is a special kind of generous.

 

After a few times of you coming into work with bruises or abrasions, she’d put the pieces together and cornered you about your boyfriend.  You’d made her promise not to tell anyone, because it would only make things worse for you, and she’d eventually acquiesced, though not without protest.  She may not be able to help you in that area of your life, but she does what she can to protect you in the domain that you both share. Hell, she’s even told off Cason a few times since you’ve been working there.  Though only be a few years older than you, Rosalie’s just about the closest thing to a mother figure you’ve ever had.

 

“Yeah,” you sigh, shaking your head as you think back on all the mistakes you made tonight.  “It was just… I don’t do too well with yelling and it had me kinda anxious all night. I hope I didn’t make too many messes for anyone.”  You screw up your face as you feel tears prickling at the backs of your eyes and shake your head.

 

Rosalie lays a hand on your back and rubs it gently, leaning against you in a half hug.  “Don’t worry about it sweetie, we all fuck up sometimes. You just gotta get back up and keep movin’.”  She smiles down at you and you lean into her touch, glad she’s always there for you when you need it. “How about we go get some drinks?  You look like you need the load off. We can go to Josie’s down the street.”

 

You consider for a moment, a rock falling into your stomach when you think of how upset Ethan would be when you got home late, but you push it down, refusing to let the thought of it ruin what could end up being a pretty good rest of your night.  _If I’m gonna get yelled at when I get home from a day of getting yelled at at work, I might as well throw something pleasant in the mix._

 

“Sure, why not?”

 

***

 

“I can’t _believe_ you!  That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, oh my God!”

 

You and Rosalie are cackling, nearly falling out of your seats as she tells you a story about how she almost got arrested for stealing a puppy from a pet shop when she was in college.

 

“I’m serious!  The cop asked me why my sweatshirt had barked and I told him it was just a period cramp!  He believed me, the idiot,” she snorts and takes another swig of her beer. You’re bent over, leaning dangerously far to the left and you can feel your body beginning to slide out of your seat.  “Be _careful_. My God!” She squeals as she lunges over and pushes you up in your seat until you’re sitting upright again. “You’re such a klutz when you’re drunk I completely forgot. This was such a mistake.”  She rolls her eyes at you as you gasp and sit up straight.

 

“I am _not_ drunk!”  You smack a hand on the table and then immediately slouch in your seat and slap a hand over your mouth when you realize how loud you are.  Quite a few people turn to look in you and Rosalie’s direction. “Oops,” you stage whisper.

 

Rosie slaps her knee and giggles.  “Yes you fuckin’ are!”

 

“Noooo I’m not!  I’m tipsy, if anything, hmph!”

 

Rosalie shakes her head and throws a couple of twenties down, leaning across the table to pinch you gently on the arm.  “You good to get home?” You nod enthusiastically and sloppily salute at her, giggling maniacally.

 

“Yes ma’am!”

 

Rosalie chuckles and shakes her head at you. Obviously the more sober of you two, she helps you grab up your things and stand up before helping you outside and hailing a cab.  “Hey!” You protest. “I’m barely buzzed, I can walk,” you slur the end of your sentence a bit and Rosalie ignores you, opening the cab door for you. She buckles your seatbelt for you and tells the cabbie your building address before ruffling your hair and chuckling.

 

“Text me when you get home, lady,” she says, her eyes softening a bit, not that you noticed much in your “barely buzzed” state.  “Be safe.” She closes the door and taps the roof of the taxi a few times, signalling the cab driver to go ahead and whisk you away.  You watch through the window as she gets smaller and smaller and you get further and further from your only friend.

 

 _Not only.  I have James now._   An optimistic voice chirps in the back of your mind.

 

You smile to yourself and lean against the car’s door, resting your head against the window as you fade in and out of cognizance, melting into the seat.

 

***

 

You stumble through the foyer, pulling your keys out as you wobble over to the elevator, punching the up button as you make a little “boop” noise, giggling to yourself.  You sway as you stand up and wait for the elevator car to arrive. Zoning out, you watch as the lights across the top of the door switch from the third floor, to the second, until finally the first, and the _ding_ of the elevator signifies its arrival.

 

Bumbling forward, you step into the elevator, immediately smacking your face into a very familiar feeling object, and sloppily tumbling backwards, nearly tripping over your feet before you feel an arm around your waist.

 

Looking up, you make eye contact with James and see his face folded into a mask of concern.  You smile drunkenly at him and giggle, feeling your face heat up.

 

“Why are you always knocking me down, Mister James,” you giggle again, using his assistance in helping to get you standing up straight.  Once upright, you shimmy your work skirt down before flashing a toothy smile up at him.

 

“Are you drunk?”  The corner of his mouth ticks up, and you can’t help but stare at his lips as you answer him.

 

“Nope… Just _tipsy_.”  You begin to move around him and towards the elevator, swaying a bit and brushing against his left arm, which he immediately pulls away from you, stepping back so he can face you.  You barely notice this, however, and you stumble on into the elevator car, leaning against the wall.

 

“Um…” He looks over his shoulder towards the front doors to your building and then glances back towards you, considering something.  He must come to the decision that he doesn’t trust you traveling alone because he shakes his head and sighs. “I’ll go up with you.” He steps into the car just as the doors begin to close and presses the button to the third floor—which you’d forgotten to even press.  He shoots an amused look your way and you giggle, covering your mouth.

 

“Sorry,” you mumble, slouching against the wall a bit more.  You pull at your skirt hem for the umphteenth time and stare at the side of James’ face.  The slope of his forehead and the way it blended into the hump of his brow bone.  The dip it took into his nose and the tilt of his bridge.  Your eyes eventually make their way to his lips, which _goddamn_ , if they didn't look soft.  His eyes are glued to the doors again but you watch them dart your way once he feels your gaze.

 

“You’re staring,” he comments offhandedly, not turning towards you, but tilting his head in your direction.  _He is_ really _good looking_ , you think to yourself. _His hair looks really silky..._

 

“I know.”  You smile lopsidedly, and his smirks grows, the right side of his mouth tilting up even further.  Your attention drops back to his mouth at the movement, and you can’t help but lick your lips once focused on his.  _They look so fuckin' soft..._  Those damn lips part slightly, and you feel your face flush at the sight. Clearing your throat and looking down at your hands, you fiddle with your thumbs to distract yourself.

 

You can hear James chuckling to himself and when you glance up you see that he's steadfastly staring at the door.  The elevator bell sounds and as the doors slide open, James steps to the side, allowing you out before him. You blush and nod, mumbling a small “thank you” before making your way to your apartment door.  

 

Jangling your keys around until you find the right one, you go to push it into the keyhole before turning and looking back at James.  You see that he’s stepped out of the elevator, waiting only a few steps behind you. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

 

“Weren’t you going somewhere?”  You realize that you sound a bit pushy once you say it.  You don’t want him gone, exactly, but you don’t quite understand why he felt the need to escort you all the way to your door.  Tilting your head, you beam up at him. He clears his throat and looks down somewhat sheepishly.

 

“I had to walk you to your door,” he shuffles his feet a bit.  “Can’t let a doll walk home alone this late.”  That Boston curl to his tongue has returned and you feel your face growing warm because of it.

 

_Doll.  That’s so old timey and… sweet._

 

You turn and lean against the doorframe, looking up at him.  “Well thank you, James.” Your voice is soft and sincere, and you can see what could perhaps be counted as a blush rising on his cheeks.  “You’re really sweet.”

 

He nods wordlessly and gestures towards your door, still not looking up at you.  You giggle and begin to twist your key in the lock but you’re stopped cold when you see the handle already turning.  Your heart rate picks up instantly and you stumble back a step, already beginning to panic. You feel your veins tighten, all feeling of drunkenness evaporating straight out of you.  The door swings open to reveal Ethan, his hair sticking up in all directions and his clothes twisted all around him as if he’d been tossing and turning in bed.

 

“The fuck you home so late for?”  He barks groggily, scratching the back of his head.  “Talkin’ all loud an’ shit...get in here.” He squints at you and then finally registers James standing behind you, muscles tense like a tightly coiled spring.  “Fuck are you?”

 

Your anxiety begins to take over and you move a step forward and away from James to get between the two.  You’re immediately hit with a wave of your boyfriend’s booze breath and you cringe slightly before stuttering out an explanation.  “Th-this is James, he, ah, he lives next—next door.” When Ethan does nothing but stare at James threateningly, you babble on. “It was a b-busy night at the bar and we didn’t get off until after—after midnight and so Rosie took me out for drinks so we could un-unwind after such a long day and J-James wanted to walk me up to make sure I made it back safe and—” Ethan cuts you off before you can ramble anymore.

 

“I Goddamn hate your stutter, get inside.”  He moves to the side so you can walk through and you move forward but throw a glance over your shoulder towards James who’s still standing more tense than you’ve ever seen him, fists clenched, staring down your partner.

 

“B-bye,” you raise a hand to wave to him but your arm is grabbed and you’re yanked into your dark apartment, deafened by the sound of your front door slamming.

 

***

 

Bucky’s hands contract into fists at his sides, the plates and gears in his mechanical arm humming as they shift.  He doesn’t like this man.

 

“Fuck are you?”  The man snarls. He _really_ doesn’t like this man.

 

Bucky flexes his right foot in his boot, subconsciously checking to make sure his switchblade is still tucked in at his ankle, where he’d placed it this morning.  His eyes flicker about the man in front of him, brain switching into combat mode, prepared to take him out if necessary. _He’s a few inches shorter than me. Definitely lighter; no more than 160.  Low muscle mass. Weak. Intoxicated._

 

“Th-this is James, he, ah, he lives next—next door.”

 

Buck watches as you move to stand between him and the man in the doorway, as if aware of the fact that he was formulating a take down procedure.  He shifts mere centimeters to your left, imperceptible to either you or the man in front of you, planning a clear course around your body in order to gain access to the target.

 

 _Circumnavigate.  I don’t want to hurt her,_ he reminds himself.

 

Bucky stands still as you stutter out an explanation to the man.  _She doesn’t normally stutter this much. He makes her anxious. Who is he?_   He doesn’t see any resemblance between you two. _Boyfriend._ The way the small man addresses and regards you very much mimics the way his HYDRA handlers saw him as nothing more than an animal to keep on a short leash.When the man cuts you off, insulting you, and then issuing an order, Buck feels his blood heat up, eyes narrowing as he settles his weight onto his back foot, knees bending, muscles coiled.  _Prepare to initiate contact._

 

He watches as you move through the doorway, and you turn, raising a hand to wave to him.  Your eyes are wide and your voice shakes as you say goodbye. _Fear_. The man snatches your wrist and yanks you forward, away from Bucky and into the dark apartment.  Buck immediately moves to follow you in, the gears in his shoulder spinning faster as he winds up to strike the man, but the door is slammed in his face before he can get through.

 

 _He’s going to hurt her._ _I'm going to hurt him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you all how bad I wanted Buck to kick in the door and then Ethan's teeth BUT I'm giving Bucky some modern common sense so he knows to not, oh I dunno, bust down someone's front door just to beat them up. 
> 
> The next chapter will be up by the end of the day because it's kinda short and I refuse to let it stand alone :/ I want my chapters to be longer but I don't like overdoing it with some of these scenes so I guess I'll just try to be consistent


	5. I'm Stuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're covered in literal forensic evidence of your boyfriend's malevolent tendencies, yet somehow you refuse to listen to reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so warning in this chapter for a lot of self-blaming and excusing abusive behavior, as well as Reader displaying clear symptoms of Battered Woman Syndrome (info in end notes).
> 
> This was really short and kind of meh in terms of quality, but I really just needed to give everyone a look into Reader's mind in case anyone was out here like "why is this dumb bitch still with him", because trust me when I say sometimes victims just don't realize that they're actively being abused or that they deserve better.
> 
> (Chapter title from _Carousel_ by Melanie Martinez)

The next day at work your face is so swollen and bruised, molded into a mask of pain and defeat, even Cason can’t bring himself to start yelling at you.  

 

When Rosalie met you at the employee’s breakroom to warn you about his anger at you being fifteen minutes late, she stopped in her tracks at seeing your bruised cheek and swollen eye.  Cason had been hot on her heels, mouth already open to scream at you about getting demoted to dish duty again, but Rosalie slapped a hand on his chest before slamming the door closed after him, closing the three of you into the small room.

 

You raise your arms slowly to enter the combination into your locker and place your jacket and purse into the small metal box gently so as not to jostle the rest of your body.  Rosie’s voice is quiet and somewhat broken when she gasps out the question you knew was coming.

 

“What did he _do_ to you, sweetie?”  Her mouth curls up in hatred and disgust when she finishes the question.  You pinch your lips into a thin line and turn to her, eyes already stinging.

 

“I don’t know what you mean, Rosalie.”

 

She gasps and huffs in frustration.  “If you don’t tell me what that bastard did to you I swear to _god_ I’ll kill him myself,” she grits through clenched teeth.  You ignore her and look towards Cason.

 

“I got mugged last night.  I should work on the dishes so I don’t make any customers uncomfortable,” you say the words firmly and resolutely, not asking, but rather telling him that you’re not working tables today.  He nods mutely, mouth hanging open.

 

“Like hell you got mugged,” Rosie hisses as you start to walk past the two of them.  You pause and turn to her, your tears just on the verge of falling, eyes wide and pleading.

 

“Rosie… _please_.  Just drop it.  I got mugged.  End of story.”  Her teeth are clenched but she nods at you regardless.  You smile at her in a way of thanking her, and you turn and leave towards the kitchen, head ducked down, your steps quick.

 

***

 

Your day is a blur of working on cleaning the kitchen and bussing tables, punctuated with Rosie checking in on you regularly just to see how you’re doing, asking if you need a break, telling you she’ll call the cops if you need her to.  You brush her off but she’s still insistent on doing _something_ to help you out.  If only she could understand that there’s nothing she could do to help.

 

The life you built with him is the only life you have anymore, and to be honest you’re not sure if you know how to function without him.  After your dad died and you moved to New York, everything was terrible.  You were hopping from job to job, unable to do much better than minimum wage without any true experience or serious secondary education.  You were waiting tables and doing freelance jobs, working for Uber and Postmates, basically whatever you could to pay the rent in your terribly overpriced apartment.  That is, until you found _him_.  

 

Ethan helped you get a job at his friend’s bar—the same bar you currently worked at, however there had been a shift in management.  He taught you your way around the city, finally helped you learn how to navigate those god damned subways, how to find apartments without getting scammed, how to start your life fresh.

 

It wasn’t until almost two years ago that he got bad.  He lost his job and it was taking him a lot longer than he’d expected to find a new one.

 

He became angry.

 

He would yell at you sometimes, break and throw stuff every once in a while, but it wasn’t until he’d been unemployed for a full year that he finally hit you.  It was just one hit that first time and he’d said it was an accident. That you were too close to him.  You shouldn’t have been so close to him while he was upset like that.  _Stupid_.

 

He’d held you that whole night rocking you and apologizing, pressing soft kisses into your hair. He’d cried for hours feeling terrible about what he’d done, the splotchy handprint shaped red mark on your face.  You’d forgiven him, obviously.  _It was an accident_.

 

The second time it was just a push.  He’d shoved you onto the kitchen floor because you got too close to him while he was upset again, tried to comfort him when you knew he’d needed space.  Of course you forgave him that time too, it was your own fault.  _You should have given him space._

 

The next time, and the next time, and the next time, it was all on purpose. None of it was accidents.

 

But… you couldn’t stay mad at him.  It wasn’t really ever his fault either.  He _always_ said sorry. He only ever did it when he’s mad and it’s not like he’s always mad.  And a lot of the times he’ll cry afterwards, because he feels so bad.  No bad person would cry after hurting someone, _obviously_.  He was a good guy he just did bad things.

 

_It wasn’t his fault._

 

Eventually the bruises got bigger and the punches got heavier and the kicks went deeper.  You’d only been to the emergency room twice and both times he’d taken you.  The first time it was just a sprained wrist because he’d twisted it behind you. No biggie.  The second time it was a broken rib. You’d told the doctors you tripped down the stairs to your apartment complex while he stood by your side and stroked your hair, pressing kisses to the side of your head.  

 

_It wasn’t his fault._

 

His dad was worse to his mother.  She had had it so bad and he did it in front of the kids.  That must have been where he got it from.  If anything, his dad was to blame!  You can’t hit your son’s mother in front of him and expect him to grow up normal afterwards.

 

_It wasn’t his fault._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference to my notes at the beginning of the chapter:
> 
> Battered Woman Syndrome (aka Battered Spouse Syndrome) is when the victim becomes so accustomed to this long term abuse that they develop what is known as "learned helplessness" aka they were treated like shit for so long that they become so depressed and defeated that they don't think they're capable of escaping the abuse, and they also become fearful of a life without said abuse.


	6. Everybody's Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James isn't a fool, he knows that your boyfriend is violent with you, but there isn't really much he can do to help, especially when you keep denying it. When you two see each other again in the elevators, him with another armful of groceries and you sporting another round of bruises, something between the two of you shifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be honest this might be my favorite chapter of this story so far. It felt so good to write Buck getting that sweet sweet benevolent human contact that he's been missing for 70+ years. Also Concerned!Bucky is the only thing I'll ever care about thank you good day
> 
> (This chapter's title is from _Everybody's Watching Me (Uh Oh)_ by The Neighborhood)

You’re on your way into your apartment building, limping a bit but doing your best to cover it up, like always, when you see James.  He’s standing in front of the elevators, his back to you, with groceries in his left arm again. This time it’s four bags. _Seriously, how does he manage all of those in just one arm?_

 

You come up beside him, not looking his direction and not saying anything.  Ducking your head down in shame, your hair falls forward, concealing your face from his stare. You’re too embarrassed about how James saw you get yelled at last night and you’re certain he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. _Who’s to say he ever wanted to talk to you in the first place_ , you think sharply to yourself, _maybe you just annoyed him into submission, like you do with everyone.  Ethan was probably right._

 

James is silent next to you but you can feel his eyes boring into the side of your face.  _Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something._ You don’t risk looking at him out of fear. The elevator doors mercifully open before you panic and decide on just taking the stairs up.  James steps aside to let you enter, a creature of habit.

 

Once inside you press the button for the third floor wordlessly, leaning back against the corner of the elevator car.  You stare at the side of James’ head and sigh, preparing yourself to speak, but he beats you to it.

 

“He… He’s cruel to you.”

 

It’s as if the small room fills with static because all you can hear is the deafening sensation of buzzing in your ears.  Your hands tremble in front of you and you clench them both into fists at your sides in an attempt to make them stop.

 

“You d-don’t know anything,” you grit out.  You fail to convince even yourself, seeing as your voice breaks and every word wobbles.

 

James mumbles your name and it’s half word, half sigh. He turns to look at you, frowning. “I kn-...” He stops, his frown now turning into what looks like a snarl. “Your face.”  His tone sharpens so suddenly that it scares you; you start shaking. “He hit you?” He sounds so angry and you don’t know what to expect, so you instinctively take half a step away from him, your back hitting the wall.

 

His face softens as he watches you cower like a hurt animal and he shakes his head sadly, but his eyes remain hard. You relax slightly but remain in the corner, as far as you can be from him. _He...he wouldn’t do it too, right?_

 

His lips are pressed into a thin line when the elevator arrives to your floor and he steps out before he gets the chance to offer up his typical gentlemanly behavior.  Before you can even think it, your feet are carrying you after him towards his front door.

 

“James, I-” you mumble out.

 

He turns to look down at you, eyes even softer now than they were before. It seemed like he was apologizing without actually saying anything. _Or is that pity?_ You do what you can to change the subject.

 

“Let me help you with your groceries.  It’s a lot to be carrying.” Without waiting for him to reply you move to his left side and snatch two of the bags out of his arm, not noticing how he tenses up the second you move that direction. He lets you take the bags, however, and he fishes for his keys in his pocket, unlocking the door and letting you in first before he moves to close it behind you.

 

He gestures towards the kitchen with his head, though you need little help finding it. The apartment set up is identical to yours, with even the pre-prepared furniture included, however he did seem to have rearranged some of it quite differently than you have yours.

 

You set down the brown bags onto his countertop and begin removing things from them, not bothering to ask him for any real instructions on where to put things. Starting with the fruits and vegetables you have, you place them into the otherwise empty refrigerator, in all the same spots you’d have them in your own kitchen. _He can change it around when I leave. I just need something to do for the time being._

 

You can hear James moving almost silently behind you, the only real noise you hear being the sound of him pulling things out of the bags and setting them on the counter.  His footsteps don’t really even make any noise.

 

Once you finish unloading the bags you have, you move from the kitchen into the living room area and look around the space, playing a miniature “spot the difference” game with yourself and comparing your apartment with his.

 

“You don’t have any pictures up,” you remark.  Glancing to James you can see his shoulders tense up a bit and then relax, as if he caught the scent of a bad thought or memory but then pushed it away.

 

“I don’t like pictures,” he states plainly.  For some reason the Russian accent comes out stronger than usual.  _Strange..._ You move toward the couch, taking a seat on the edge of it and resting your hands in your lap.  You begin fiddling with the hem of your skirt which has been riding up your thighs all day. You pull at it a bit out of habit, trying to conceal as much of yourself as you can.

 

James moves out of the kitchen and into the living room with you, pausing before taking a seat on the couch at the other end.  He doesn’t sit back or make any effort to make himself comfortable, which is understandable considering how tense the air in the room is.

 

“He isn’t always like that,” you blurt out without really thinking about it.  James’ eyes narrow slightly and he raises an eyebrow. “H-he just… he’s been going through a lot lately.”  He nods and leans forward to place his elbows on his knees. You feel him staring at you but you refuse to look up, so he remains silent.  Eventually, curiosity gets the best of you, and you finally glance up, at which point he leans forward even further, sure to hold eye contact as he speaks.

 

“No man’s problems are a good enough excuse to be layin’ his hands on his girl.”  The Russian lilt to his words is gone and replaced with something that sounds akin to a Brooklyn accent to you.  _It’s like he’s two different guys, what the fuck._ He raises his eyebrows even more and his tone is serious when he speaks again.  “You don’t deserve to be hurt.”

 

At that you finally break eye contact, looking down at your hands.  You shake your head quickly, tears already prickling at the backs of your eyes.

 

“N-no he didn’t do anything t-to me it was just an accident,” your voice is shaky and you can feel yourself beginning to hyperventilate when you feel a warm hand resting on top of yours.  You focus on the back of his hand, eyes eventually falling to a scar located just between his ring finger and pinky knuckles. Eventually, you regulate your breathing enough to speak properly.  “He didn’t mean to…” You trail off, not committed enough to the lie to bother speaking the rest of it. Hanging your head down in shame you sniffle, fiddling with your hands which look absurdly small and dainty next to James’ huge one.

 

James squeezes your hand gently before he stands and leaves to the back portion of his apartment.  You remain on the couch, shaking a bit, anxiously awaiting his return. For some reason you felt as if the temperature in the room dropped without him there and you felt exposed to the elements of isolation.

 

When James returns he has a small white box in his hands.  He sits down on the couch much closer to you than he was before, and he takes your left hand gently to rest it in his lap. Opening the box he reveals a minimalistic medical pack, complete with ace bandages, disinfectant, bandaids, a small packet of painkillers, and some kind of ointment.

 

He takes out the ace wraps, peeling the end of the roll and sticking it to the index finger of his gloved hand, using it to hold steady the strip and make unraveling it easier. He unrolls about two feet of the wrap before he rips it off.  He then begins applying it to your wrist, wrapping it tightly around and around until the joint is held straight.

 

“H-how did y-” you begin to ask but he gently interjects.

 

“You flinched when you were using it to put your bag down earlier and you were favoring it when you were putting away groceries. Thank you by the way.”  His voice is soft and kind, as if he’s afraid that speaking too harshly will shatter you like you’re a glass doll.

 

“Of course,” you respond quietly, watching as he rubs his thumb over the inside of your wrist over the bandage wrapping. Your eyes eventually fall to his other hand which he’s holding farther away from you, as if purposefully creating distance. “Why do you wear only one glove?”  You keep your voice low, afraid of wrecking whatever fragile moment you two are sharing. He stiffens next to you and the circles on your wrist stop, so you backpedal immediately. “S-sorry that was… You don’t have to tell me, James.”

 

He slowly raises his eyes to yours and it’s as if you can see storm clouds dancing through their blue skies.  There’s something in those eyes… some kind of pain but also understanding. It’s something so different from the pity you’re used to seeing.  It isn’t sadness _for_ you, but sadness _with_ you. There is also something hard in those eyes, something forming a wall, a gateway. He’s guarding himself.

 

His eyes flicker down to his left hand and he flexes his fingers slowly, a small humming noise accompanying the movement.  You can’t help but lean forward to get a better look. At each small twitch of his fingers, you lean forward bit by bit, to the point where your head is nearly resting against his chest.  You can feel his shallow breaths on the back of your neck, fluttering the strands of hair living there. He flexes his hand again, this time making a fist, and the mechanical whirring is a touch louder, accompanied with the soft sound of gears shifting and clicking into place.  

 

Glancing up into his eyes for permission, you move your un-injured hand to rest atop his gloved one, which he flexes again, though this time it’s jerky.  It pretty much confirms your suspicion that he doesn’t let people this close to him, like, ever. For some reason the thought makes a burst of warmth flow through your chest.

 

You focus your attention onto his hand, and your first observation is how cold this hand is in comparison to his right one. Even through the glove the temperature difference is shocking. He flexes his digits again and this time you feel the metal plates moving and rearranging themselves beneath the surface. You let out a soft gasp and look up at James, your eyes wide with curiosity and wonder.

 

“How…”

 

He sighs gently. “A long time ago there was an accident.  I lost my arm and… they made a new one.” You nod and redirect your attention back to his hand.  There are so many questions flitting through your mind right now, but your curiosity overpowers your concern.  You begin to dance your fingertips up past the edge of the glove, to the small strip of shiny metal exposed where his jacket meets the glove.

 

“Can I?” It’s barely a whisper, more an exhale than anything.

 

You look back up into James’ eyes and you see something else in them.  They’re twinkling with something that you can’t quite read. It’s soft and delicate.  His breath catches in his throat and you can almost feel him about to say no, but before you can start to withdraw your touch, James nods his head slowly.

 

You don’t move for a long moment, you just remain staring into his baby blue eyes.  There’s something in them that’s almost begging for something, and you can tell it’s his reluctance.  Completely aware of the fact that this is probably the closest he’s been with someone in a _while_ , you can understand the hesitation.

 

Offering a small smile, you move your hand down to lay flat against his, and you gently clasp your fingers with his.  You see his eyes flash, widening slightly in panic, and they dart from your joined hands back to your face. His breathing has picked up again, and you offer a light squeeze to his hand in response, hoping to calm him somewhat.

 

“It’s okay, James,” you whisper.  “Tell me to stop and I will, no questions, okay?”

 

He nods slowly, exhaling shakily.  “Okay.”

 

“Tell me if I hurt you—”

 

“You won’t.” His mumble is stern and unwavering.

 

“Okay,” you murmur back.  Slowly, giving him plenty of time to stop you or pull away, you tuck a finger beneath the edge glove and begin to push it down over his hand.  Your fingertip daintily brushes over smooth metal and you feel the dull vibrations of the machinery working within. James uncurls his fist to help you slip the glove off of his hand.  You remove it completely and place the leather accessory in your lap gently before lifting up James’ metal hand, noting that it’s more than twice the size of your own, slightly bigger than his fleshy right hand.  You bring it close to you and notice that it’s shaking— _he_ is shaking.

 

Quickly you look up at him and furrow your brows in confusion. “Hey, hey, you’re shaking, what’s wrong?”  His eyes are flickering back and forth between you and his hand and there seems to be something akin to terror in them.  Instinctively you let go of his metal hand and lift your own up to cup his cheek, concern painting your features. “James, talk to me,” you whisper.  His whole body is trembling and you aren’t quite sure what to do to help him.

 

“Hey, look at me, you’re alright okay?  You’re safe here,” the words fall out between the sound of you gently shushing him. His eyes start to water a bit and you rub a thumb across his cheekbone slowly, growing more and more concerned.  “James please talk to me, tell me what it is,” you plead but he doesn’t speak. You hear more whirring, quick and incessant now, and you glance down to see that his metal hand is opening and closing rapidly, as if he’s grasping for something.

 

You look up at his face again searching for something to signal you as to what it is that’s going on with him but with no clues in sight you just continue shushing him and stroking his cheek gently.  “I’m right here,” you whisper. The metallic noises continue and his hand is still opening and closing, flattening and then clenching. Grabbing it up, you rest it against your cheek, leaning your face into his hand, hoping maybe the pressure could help bring him back to some sense of reality or stability. Whatever he was experiencing wasn’t something physical.

 

The second the cool metal of his hand makes contact with your face, the whirring as well as the movements cease, and it’s as if the clouds in his eyes clear up and he snaps back to. His mouth is opening and closing like he’s planning on saying something but doesn’t quite know what it is he’s meaning to say.

 

You sit there patiently, your hand cradling the back of his, pressing it against your cheek, waiting for him to fully come back into himself. Eyes never leaving his, you gently run your thumb across his metal knuckles, something you remember your father always doing to help you calm down.  You don’t rush James at all or do anything else to coax him out of wherever he was just at. You sit and wait for him to say something, which he does, eventually.

 

“I’m n...not a good man.” His words are nothing more than a mumble, soft and unsteady.

 

At that you pause your movements, frowning deeply.  You shake your head, pressing against the back of his hand firmly to push his palm more securely against your cheek. “I beg to differ,” you murmur back. You begin to dance your fingers over the backs of his knuckles again and you see his face begin to crumble and he shudders.

 

“I’ve hurt people,” his voice is shaky and it feels like he’s an animal about to bolt. “That arm… is a weapon. It was made to kill.” The last word tumbles out like water from an overflowing glass.  By the way his eyes widen, you can tell that you’ve let something show across your face. Shock, perhaps, at the new information he’s just provided you. _A killer? No… Not James._

 

You shake your head firmly, your mouth set in a thin line. His eyes look as if they’re pleading with you; he’s begging you to understand.

 

“James you’ve been nothing but kind to me since the moment I’ve met you. If _this_ ,” you emphasize your words by squeezing his hand, “was meant to kill, then explain why it’s comforting me.” He splutters for a moment searching for an answer. You nod your head, a gentle smile on your lips. “This arm is not _you_. You are not _it_.  You control yourself, no one else. Understand?”

 

His chest jumps at that, a shaky exhale that sounds almost like a dry sob. You lower his hand into your lap and bring your own back to cup his cheek again. Running a thumb over his cheekbone you tilt your head and smile at him.  You can feel his trembling calming down, but his body is still tense next to yours.

 

“Y/N,” he breathes your name as if it’s the only word he knows.  “I don’t…. I can’t hurt you. I won’t let myself.” His words are firm but the tremble in his body counters his intent.

 

“You won’t.”

 

“But what if-”

 

“You.  Won’t.”

 

His head is already shaking, mouth opening to voice his rebuttal.  A raised eyebrow from you has him stopping in his tracks, left to opening and closing his mouth like a fish.  You delicately tuck a strand of his hair back behind his ear, your hand lingering about his jawline before you slowly let it drop to where his neck and shoulder meet.

 

“How about I make you dinner? I saw you got some chicken and potatoes. I make a mean curry.” You do everything in your power to keep your voice gentle and comforting.

 

When James nods, you grab up the med case and put everything back, setting it on his coffee table. You then pick up his glove from your lap and hold it out to him. You look up into his eyes again, trying to direct every good vibe that you can muster in his direction. “You can wear this if you still want to, but know that you never have to hide around me, okay?”

 

His eyes are still wide as if he’s scared, hopeful, and confused all at once, but he nods anyways and takes the glove from you.  You gaze at him, a small smile on your lips. Getting up, you move to the kitchen, going through his refrigerator and cabinets searching for the ingredients and spices that you know you’ll need.

 

You hear James getting up and walking towards you in the kitchen and just as you’re about to ask him where his pots are, you see a bare metal hand appear over your shoulder and open a cabinet for you. You turn and beam up at him.

 

“Dinner’ll be ready in thirty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next chapter for this written already but... I kinda wanna write this whole interaction but from James' POV just so that the dialogue/development in the next few chapters doesn't seem OOC or rushed, bc I'm gonna be real with you, this interaction between Buck and Reader full stop changes his life. I got pretty good feedback on the last time I wrote from his POV so I'm tempted. Opinions?


	7. Uh Oh (pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James isn't a fool, he knows that your boyfriend is violent with you, but there isn't really much he can do to help, especially when you keep denying it. When you two see each other again in the elevators, him with another armful of groceries and you sporting another round of bruises, something between the two of you shifts.
> 
> A.K.A Chapter 6 but from Bucky's POV (pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so:
> 
> 1) Sorry for taking so long to update school has been kicking my ass 
> 
> 2) I decided to split up this chapter into two parts just because Buck's POV has a lot more stuff going on than the part from Reader's POV and essentially these types of chapters will give more context with him and what's going on in his mind (also it will help demystify the details surrounding his non-canon situation) (double also I didn't wanna post a 5,000 word chapter just to fall off the face of the earth for another two weeks).
> 
> I hope you like it!

Bucky hears your lopsided gait as you limp through the front doors of the apartment building, one sneaker scuffing lightly over the tile whilst the other thumped too heavy to have been comfortable.  He can feel his lip twitch up into what wants to become a snarl but he remembers himself and inhales deeply through his nose and slowly out through his mouth.

 

After seeing the way that _boyfriend_ of yours treated you last night, Buck had spent the whole night pacing around his living room.  When he heard yelling and things being thrown he’d nearly smashed his metal fist through the thin wall separating your apartments. He knew that all of that plus his prior knowledge of you being treated badly meant that your limp was due to an injury inflicted on you by your… _”boyfriend”._

 

Your uneven footsteps came closer to him and he couldn’t help but grow a little excited at the thought of a conversation with you.  He isn’t one for a lot of words, really, but you never seemed to mind, and you did what you could to fill up the silence. _Plus_ , Buck thinks, _her voice is pleasant to listen to._

 

He bounces on his toes a bit when you get closer and the smell of your sweet perfume is carried over to him.  _Let her talk first_. To be honest, he’s gotten used to you sashaying up to him with a smile on your face and something kind to say with that amicable little voice of yours that so often lights up his day.  He had been worried the first few times seeing you that he was cornering you and weirding you out, but when you continually initiated conversation it made him feel important, which was new for him. It kind of freaked him out at first—he’d been convinced you were stalking him.

 

When you finally amble up to him, Bucky waits patiently for you to say hi, but after a few moments, he feels his heart drop.  Your shoulders are hunched forward, as if you were curling in on yourself, and your hair is falling all around your head so he can’t even see your face.  Shifting his groceries in his metal arm, Bucky frowns, staring at the side of your head and trying to catch a glimpse of your face through the gaps in your hair.

 

When the elevator arrives and the doors slide open, Buck nearly jumps out of his skin, shocked out of his ogling.  _Stop staring_ , he scolds himself. Stepping aside and bowing his head at you, he signals for you to enter the elevator car first.  

 

_Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.  Maybe she’s done with me._

 

Once you’re both inside of the car, Bucky watches as you press the button for your floor, eyes fixed on the glowing number.  His chest feels kind of tight. _Does she hate me? It_  is _my fault she got hurt_. He clenches his teeth and grips the grocery bags in his arm even tighter.  _No. Not my fault. His_.

 

Without thinking, Bucky blurts out what’s on his mind.  “He… He’s cruel to you.”

 

He can hear you gasp behind him and he immediately wants to reach out and snatch back his words.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Inconspicuously stealing a glance at you, he sees you clench your fists as you start to shake.  

 

“You d-don’t know anything.”  The waver in your voice is so obvious it saddens him.  He knows that _you_ know better, but he also knows how headstrong you are.

 

“Y/N,” Buck sighs, “I kn-...”  He was in the middle of turning to face you so he could see your face when he addressed you but he’s stopped short.

 

His body jerks and he’s deafened by the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, his heart now beating twice as hard.  Your eye is swollen and you have a fist-sized-bruise blooming across your cheek. _Her face..._ “Your face.” At least ten emotions are trying to worm their way through Bucky’s chest right now and he can’t decide which one he wants to let stay there.  “He hit you?”

 

_He hit her again._

 

_I’m gonna kill him._

 

Bucky isn’t an idiot, and neither is anyone else.  It’s obvious that you’re being abused but for some reason, up until last night, he’d not been able to feel the anger bubble up quite this forcefully.  First, he witnessed firsthand just how _emotionally_ disparaging that man was to you. Yelling orders at you like you were a dog. But now? Seeing the physical evidence of that piece of shit’s malevolence and being able to make the direct connection between last night’s anger and today’s abrasions…  A chill runs up Bucky’s spine.

 

It takes a moment for him to realize that you’ve recoiled away from him, squishing yourself into the corner of the elevator car.  Once he snaps back to, his face immediately softens and he shakes his head, unable to tamp down the anguish and outrage he felt burning in his gut.  The last thing on earth that he would ever want would be for you to be afraid of him, so he spins back around, eyes fixed on the metal doors again, determined to bolt the second they slid open.

 

_I won’t hurt her._

 

_She doesn’t know that._

 

When the elevator finally makes it up to your floor, Bucky darts out, trying to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.  His flesh hand is twitching to pull at his hair—his newest stress habit—but he distracts himself by fumbling with his keys. He’s so caught up in the guilt that was poking at the backs of his eyes that he doesn’t even notice you’ve followed him to his door until you say his name.

 

When he looks down at you, he does everything in his power to silently convey how sorry he is for scaring you, and when all you do is flash him a look of passive confusion, his eyes soften even more.  As he opens his mouth to say something, you utter something about helping and groceries, but he doesn’t pay attention because all he can focus on is the fact that your hands are brushing against his metal arm.

 

It only takes a moment for him to snap out of it—yet again—but he can’t help but remain tense as he leads you into his apartment and guides you to his kitchen.  He watches as you put down your purse, wincing slightly, before immediately getting to work putting things away. He never really had a method to his fridge or cabinets, kind of just throwing things on whatever shelves that were empty, but he finds himself fascinated by the system you seem to be putting into place.  Bucky notes that you seem to be favoring the same arm that you used to put down your bag earlier, which you’re now using to pull open the refrigerator.

 

_Hm… slight swelling and bruising.  Possible stretched or torn ligament._

 

Buck would never admit it, but he has to physically shake his head to get himself to stop staring.  He was maybe a bit _too_ focused on giving you a few once overs as he tried to detect any more injuries.  Other than your face and wrist, all he really sees is a few bruises along your thighs and calves. He takes a moment to regain his composure before beginning to unload the two bags you had left him with, trying his best to follow your little method of organization.

 

He observes out of the corner of his eye as you finish up emptying out your half of the grocery bags and you go to walk around his living room, looking around.  A pang of anxiety worms its way into Bucky’s belly as he frantically tries to remember if he did laundry that morning and finally got rid of all the trash that had been piling up on his coffee table for the past week.

 

“You don’t have any pictures up.”  Bucky’s whipped back into reality when your melodic voice rings out from the other room.

 

At that he can feel the paranoia sweep in, but then he reminds himself that it’s totally normal to not have a bunch of photographs up.  Your voice isn’t judgemental in any way, so he can tell you’re just making an observation. Exhaling slowly, he relaxes a bit.

 

“I don’t like pictures.”

 

He almost wants to tell you that he doesn’t get his picture taken ever.  He can’t remember the last time that he had his picture taken outside of maybe photobombing tourists in the streets of the city.  Even then, he does as much as he can to obscure his face with hats and glasses and hoodies; he’s certain you wouldn’t even recognize him if you were to see those photos.

 

Buck finishes placing the rest of the groceries away and makes his way into the living room.  Seeing you fidgeting with your skirt and hands, he decides to give you some space, taking a seat on the far end of the couch, a few feet away from you.  Sitting ramrod straight, Bucky waits for you to talk first.

 

“He isn’t always like that,” you babble out.  Buck does his best to hold back the sarcastic quip dancing on the tip of his tongue, and waits for you to continue.  “H-he just… he’s been going through a lot lately.” Nodding slowly and pursing his lips, Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, staring at you intently whilst you stare steadfastly at a loose string hanging from your skirt.  He waits patiently for you to look up at him so you can see how serious he is. Once you do, he leans even closer, stare unwavering.

 

“No man’s problems are a good enough excuse to be layin’ his hands on his girl.”  He can feel his old self coming back somewhat, his Brooklyn boy resurfacing. It makes sense considering that it was a phrase his Ma always used to say about Jimmy Miller’s dad because of how often he got in trouble for hitting his wife after losing his job.  Mrs. Miller never merited being hit like that and neither did you. “You don’t deserve to be hurt.”

 

Bucky watches sadly as your face crumbles and you stare down at your shaky hands, fiddling with your fingernails and shaking your head.

 

“N-no he didn’t do anything t-to me it was just an accident.”  Your voice is so shaky that Bucky’s certain you’re about to cry and on instinct his hand shoots out and grasps yours.  He’s shocked that he was the one to initiate the contact and he almost starts to regret it, but then he sees how your breathing slows a bit and your shoulders relax.  _Oh..._ “He didn’t mean to…” You speak up again only to let your voice fade back out, sniffling and hanging your head down.

 

Buck waits for you to say something else but when all you do is fiddle with your hands again, he gives them a gentle squeeze and stands.  He pauses for a moment, trying to decide what to do, but when he glances down and sees you rubbing at your wrist tenderly, he makes his mind up.

 

_I should tend to her injuries._

 

Bucky shuffles off to his bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and pulling out the white medicase he had put together when he first escaped to the city.  Back when he was first in the run, before he had a place to properly live, he spent his nights by dumpsters and in alleyways. Let’s just say that the other homeless men in the area were territorial and temperamental.

 

Chuckling to himself as he opens the case to recheck the contents, Bucky thinks about just how far he’s come since then.  The first six or so months of being on the run were… rough, to put it simply. His PTSD was so out of control at the time that he couldn’t hear someone cough without feeling threatened.  His flashbacks and nightmares were so bad that he rarely got more than two or three hours of sleep per night, which led to even _more_ problems.

 

Bucky would sometimes go through periods of complete retrograde amnesia, unable to remember anything that occurred before his brainwashing.  That wasn’t exactly surprising, considering half of the abuse he went through with his captors was done with the intention of erasing who he used to be.  

 

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Buck’s anterograde amnesia would kick in every once in a while, effectively cancelling out his ability to form new memories.  It’s been a while since a serious episode, but every few months he’ll forget everything that’s taken place _since_ the escape, only able to remember cryofreeze and electroconvulsive “treatments”.

 

Ever since he met you a week and a half ago, Bucky’s memories have been coming back with a bit more persistence and certainty than before.  Not the bad memories, but the ones of who he was before everything. Back when he was just a young man in Brooklyn, doing his best to look after his scrawny punk of a best friend.  Since he met you, it was like something in his head opened up, like he’d reached another level.

 

That first day he’d run into you and caught you outside the elevator, something in him had thrown a memory to the forefront of his mind.  The way he’d held you mimicked the motion of when he used to swing dance with dames, dipping them low. As soon as he’d made it back into his apartment, he’d scribbled down a paragraph in his journal about a girl with brown eyes and curly red hair in a green dress swaying around a brightly lit dance hall with him.

 

Maybe it was the consistent human contact, or maybe it was the feelings that emerged whenever he interacted with you, but something about you made him feel _human_ , which in turn made him remember things.  It was… safe. He felt safe with you.

 

Sighing, Bucky clicks the medicase closed and makes his way back out into the living room.

 

_She's something special._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to stick to a schedule of uploading on Fridays, so expect pt. 2 of this next Friday. I know the chapters before this were posted kinda erratically and that might've been annoying so I'll try and stick to a schedule!!! Lmk what you guys thought of this also ily all <3


	8. Uh Oh (pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James isn't a fool, he knows that your boyfriend is violent with you, but there isn't really much he can do to help, especially when you keep denying it. When you two see each other again in the elevators, him with another armful of groceries and you sporting another round of bruises, something between the two of you shifts.
> 
> A.K.A Chapter 6 but from Bucky's POV (pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! I hope you enjoy this update, and don't forget to lmk what you all think! <3
> 
> ** Strong warning for graphic flashbacks to Bucky's Winter Soldier days, read with caution, lovelies (Russian translations in end notes; don't kill me I used google translate)

When Bucky steps back out into the living room, he notices the way your posture perks up the moment you see him.  _It’s genuine.._. Through his years of interrogation, Bucky had gotten pretty good at smelling out bullshit, and despite your habit of pretending to be more okay than you were, you were actually glad to see him.

 

You aren’t pretending to be happier than you are, you’re just sincerely happier now that he’s near you.  His steps falter for a minute when his heart decides to skip a beat at the thought. After a moment of trying to collect himself, he decides that he likes the way that you react to him around you.

 

Taking a seat on the couch much closer to you than he was before—he can hear your heart racing—he tenderly takes your injured hand and sets it across his thighs.  Buck’s eyes begin to flit around the injured area, once again cataloging the most obvious damage done, but unsure of how much trauma there could be beneath the skin.

 

_Bruised skin, swollen joint, limited range of motion, probably a torn ligament._

 

Opening up the box, Bucky goes straight for the ace wraps.  He begins winding a foot or two of it around your wrist and hand until he’s certain that the joint could be held in place sturdily.  He’s nearly halfway done with wrapping it when he hears you trying to choke out a question; he was hoping you would say something.

 

“H-how did y-”

 

“You flinched when you were using it to put your bag down earlier and you were favoring it when you were putting away groceries.”  Bucky stops himself and remembers his manners. “Thank you by the way.” He tacks on in a softer tone, suddenly aware of how technical and lifeless his voice sounded.

 

“Of course.”

 

For a moment, Bucky loses himself as he thinks back on the way that you had looked at him last night right before the door was shut in his face.  There was so much fear in those big eyes of yours. He’s rubbing your wrist gently, hoping the motion will distract him from the dagger of rage that’s trying to stab its way into his heart.  He’s torn from his thoughts when you speak.

 

“Why do you wear only one glove?”

 

He feels his spine lock up and his face contorts into a mask of panic.  It takes all of his self control to not clench his flesh hand into a fist.  _I won’t hurt her_. He can sense your fear at his reaction, and it’s made clearer when you speak up again.

 

“S-sorry that was… You don’t have to tell me, James.”

 

Maybe it’s the way you said his name, or maybe it’s the way that you’re just genuinely curious, and not judging him, but something in him wants to show you.  His eyes slowly raise up to yours and he can see something in them that he sees reflected in his own whenever he looks into the mirror.

 

Glancing down to his metal hand, Buck wiggles his fingers slowly, and the gentle hum of the machinery catches your attention.  He holds his breath, afraid to look directly at you, but being sure to observe you with his peripheral vision. _Please don’t be scared of me_ , he silently pleads.  When you lean even closer, your eyes widening in wonder, he practically hyperventilates right then in there, his body instead settling on shallow breaths.

 

He closes the metal hand into a fist, flexing the synthetic tendons in his forearm and causing the whirring to grow louder.  Gears shift and click into their new places when he twists his arm around so that his hand is facing the two of you, palm up.

 

Bucky’s eyes meet yours when you glance up, gaze beseeching as you move your hand to cover his.  His movements falter a bit when he clenches the metal hand into a fist again and he hears your breath catch.  It almost sounds like you gasped…

 

He continues shifting the gears and plates around, watching as you smooth your hand over the thin glove.  Your fingers press more firmly onto him, and he can feel the plates depress under the pressure.

 

“How…”

 

Bucky had been expecting the question so he can’t help but sigh a bit when he answers.  “A long time ago there was an accident. I lost my arm and… they made a new one.” When all you do is nod and redirect your attention to his hand, something swells up and overflows in his chest.  The way that you just _accept_ things about him will never cease to amaze him. He watches as you begin to slide your hands from his hand up towards his wrist, a single finger hooking into the edge of his glove.  

 

“Can I?”  You breathe.

 

Your eyes meet Bucky’s again and there’s so many thoughts flitting through his mind at the moment.  He wants to say no, but he also knows that this may be the only chance that he’ll ever have to be this close to you ever again.  His words get caught in his throat as he chokes down what he wants to say: _Please don’t be afraid of me._ He nods wordlessly.

 

When you don’t move right off the bat, he starts to regret his compliance.  He wants to say nevermind, to kick you out and never see you again. Something in him is boiling with an unrecognizable emotion and it’s scaring him but he can’t decide whether it’s good or bad.  _It’s just too close_. Buck opens his mouth the tiniest bit, ready to take it back, but something in your eyes keeps him frozen in place.

 

Those damn eyes of yours, he can never focus once he gets locked in.  It’s like he’s reading a whole novel, unraveling letters and sounds and painting a story.  He’s never seen anyone with eyes like yours before, so hypnotic and addicting. He never wants to look away.

 

You smile softly, moving your hand away from his wrist and back down to his now-open palm.  You intertwine your fingers, your hands now clasped together, and Bucky’s heart rate spikes.  That evil fucking hand has crushed so many things—guns, skulls, vehicles—and his mind is filling with red flashes of him crushing your gentle little hands.  They’re so delicate and small compared to his. When you squeeze his hand, his heart does something again, but he can’t tell what it’s trying to tell his brain.

 

“It’s okay, James,” you breathe out.  “Tell me to stop and I will, no questions, okay?”

 

Relief warms Bucky’s body like sunshine after a rainstorm.  He nods his head and releases the breath that he’d not realized he’d been holding.  “Okay.”

 

“Tell me if I hurt you-”

 

He wants to laugh.

 

“You won’t.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Bucky watches as you slide the glove over his hand, dragging your fingertip over the metal plates as if you were running a paintbrush across a canvas.  You set the glove in your lap and then move to scoop up the hand, which dwarves your own next to his. Something in Buck wants to flatten his palm against yours, just for the two of you to laugh at how absurdly different the two were.

 

Images flood his mind of him snapping a woman’s neck with his hand, the crack of her bones forceful enough for him to feel it in his chest.  He sees himself strangling the life out of a man as he kicks and chokes. He sees the hand breaking a jaw, he sees the thumbs gouging out eyes, the knuckles backhanding a target.

 

_Suddenly he’s back in the snow.  He feels goosebumps sweep across his flesh as he feels the breeze biting him.  He can hear the crunch of heavy boots coming closer, closer, closer. He’s shaking, he’s so, so cold.  The footsteps are right next to him now, and someone’s yelling in a different language. They’re shouting.  There’s hands on him, everything is numb but it all still hurts. It’s so cold. The snow is red, it’s stained with him, he made a mess._

 

_The snow is red, he made a mess.  It’s not his blood anymore. He’s looking down at the metal hand, there’s a gun in it.  The black metal is so striking against the bright silver, it catches the moonlight. He looks at the snow and there’s a body in it, in the red.  He made a mess. It’s not his blood, but he hurts. He’s shaking, he’s so, so cold._

 

 _He’s not in the snow, he’s in a gray cell.  He can hear heavy boots coming down the hall, closer, closer, closer.  The footsteps are right outside of the cell now, and someone’s yelling in a different language but he understands it this time.  “Vstat', soldat.” He obeys automatically, standing. “Prishlo vremya dlya l'da.” No, no, he doesn’t want the ice, it’s so, so, cold.  He’s so, so cold._  

 

The plates of his hands seize up, and he ceases all movement, abruptly falling back into the now.  His eyes are glued to yours, wide and watery. _My hand is on her face, why is my hand on her face, did I hurt her?_ He starts to open his mouth to ask you if you’re okay, if he hurt you, but it’s like his throat isn’t working. He opens and closes his mouth dumbly for a few moments, unsure of what to do.

 

Inhaling deeply, he allows himself to melt into the feeling of you two being so close.  He wishes you had put his flesh hand to your face, as he doesn’t really have sensation in his mechanical arm, just a sense of pressure.  He wishes he could feel with his skin how soft your face is, how warm your cheek would be against him.

 

You start to move your thumb over the backs of his knuckles, shocking him.  At the sight, Bucky’s breath gets caught in his throat and he forgets to inhale, the feeling of suffocating coming over him.  It makes him dizzy, watching how tenderly you touch the hand that ended hundreds of lives. It horrifies him, how oblivious you are to the devastation that he has caused.

 

 _I’ve killed so many people with that hand—_ my _hand.  Those knuckles have ended lives, she shouldn’t be anywhere near them, she should be disgusted._

 

“I’m n...not a good man.”  Bucky can’t bring himself to speak louder than a mumble.

 

He watches your face crumple into a mask of confusion, lines appearing in the otherwise flawless planes of your face.  An urge in his gut makes him want to reach out with his flesh hand and smooth out the wrinkles, as if you were made of clay.  Bucky’s eyes go wide when you press his hand more firmly into your cheek, cradling it like it was a lifeline.

 

“I beg to differ,” you hum.  His eyes follow the movement of your fingertips as they go back to rubbing lightly over his knuckles.  A shiver runs up his spine.

 

“I’ve hurt people.”  Bucky’s whole body is practically vibrating.  “That arm… is a weapon. It was made to kill.”  The words come out before he can mull them over and he feels his veins tighten, prepared for you to react loudly.  Outrage, fear, disgust, _something_. When all you do is gaze back at him, his eyes widen in total disbelief. _She isn’t… afraid?_   His eyes go even wider when you shake your head as if you read his thoughts.

 

“James you’ve been nothing but kind to me since the moment I’ve met you. If _this_ was meant to kill, then explain why it’s comforting me.”  He wants to give you an answer, he really does, but Bucky’s brain short circuits, outright. _Comfort? I'm comforting her?_ He genuinely cannot recall a time in his life when he’s ever been a comforting present to someone—though that’s not saying much.  He can’t recall most of the times in his life.

 

“This arm is not _you_ ,” you continue.  “You are not _it_. You control yourself, no one else.  Understand?”

 

What is it about the way that you talk to him that makes him want to fall to the ground in a heap and sob?  It’s been _at least_ seventy years since someone’s spoken to Bucky like that, like… like he was a _human_. His breath is caught in his throat and he’s fighting back tears at this point and he doesn’t know what to say to you.

 

It’s as if Buck is suspended in time while he watches you lower his metal hand into your lap and then bring your own up to press gently to his cheek.  _Her hands are so soft… so warm._ He leans into the touch without even meaning to and his eyes flutter closed for a second. When you rub a thumb over his cheekbone, it takes all of Bucky’s self control not to nuzzle into your touch like a beaten dog.  

 

He would swear up and down in a court of law that your aura was tinged with sedative.  Whenever you brushed your skin against his it’s like you put him in a trance and shoved all of his worries and fears into a corner to be dealt with at a later date.  Despite this, Bucky remains tense, trying to do whatever he can to give you a way out. He wants you to know just how dangerous he can be, how dangerous being near him is.

 

_I never want to hurt her._

 

_I won’t._

 

_But what if I do._

 

“Y/N,” your name is like an exhale rolling from his lungs.  He feels breathless. “I don’t…. I can’t hurt you. I won’t let myself.”  He’s doing whatever he can to be stern, but his whole body trembles when he speaks.

 

“You won’t.”  You sound so sure when you say it that it pains him,

 

“But what if-”

 

“You.  Won’t.”

 

_No, I need to get her away from me, I need to protect her._

 

Bucky opens his mouth to speak again, to give you another warning, _something_ to make you understand that he’s a bad man and that he doesn’t deserve your delicate touch or your warmth.  His words die on his lips the second he sees the look on your face. It’s so foreign to him, something so grim on your usually bright and joyous features. You reach up and tuck a lock of Bucky’s hair behind his ear and it’s like you hit him over the head with a brick made of stupid, because he can’t think suddenly and his fingertips are tingling.

 

“How about I make you dinner? I saw you got some chicken and potatoes. I make a mean curry.”

 

The affection in your voice makes Bucky’s heart do something weird again, and suddenly he’s aware of just how little space there is between the two of you.  He can feel your breaths mingling, he can hear your heartbeat. He nods.

 

Watching as you pick up the medicase and place everything back into it neatly, clipping it closed and setting it on the coffee table, he feels his breath catch.  _Why is she… so good._ You pick up the leather glove and hold it out between the two of you. Buck had nearly forgotten about it, lost in the concept of you not caring about whether or not it was present.

 

“You can wear this if you still want to, but know that you never have to hide around me, okay?”

 

Nodding, Bucky gently takes the glove from you and watches you smile to yourself before getting up and going to his kitchen.  That stupid, _stupid_ feeling in his chest again. It hurt but it felt… pleasant. He wants to feel it more but it scares him a little bit.  _What the hell is that?_

 

Huffing quietly, Buck looks down at the glove.  He wants to put it back on, just for the sake of simplicity, out of habit.  He doesn’t want to force you to be around this… monstrosity more than is necessary.  He doesn’t want you to come to fear it.

 

Then again…wouldn’t seeing it constantly allow you to grow comfortable with it?  You said yourself that it comforted you. He wants to comfort you. Bucky wants to do everything in his power to make you feel as safe as he physically can.  He never wants you to feel afraid, ever. _Especially_ of him.

 

Exhaling sharply in a way to reassure himself, Bucky stands, tucking the glove into his back pocket and making his way towards the kitchen.  He smiles when he sees the layout you have going on across his counter, chicken, potatoes, and spices spread across the surface. He comes up behind you and reaches over your head, opening the cabinet that he keeps all two of his pots in, removing the biggest one for you.

 

You turn and smile up at him and _god_ , if his heart doesn't do that thing again.  He actually feels himself smile back.

 

“Dinner’ll be ready in thirty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vstat', soldat > Stand up, soldier.
> 
> Prishlo vremya dlya l'da > It's time for the ice.


	9. Ultraviolence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After your dinner with James, you feel like something special has happened between the two of you. When you get home, however, your boyfriend has something to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be honest I'm not in love with this chapter but in order for what I have planned for Ch. 11, this needed to happen. Plus it gives an extra bit of insight into the manipulation Reader's going through as well as just how badly Ethan's been messing with her mentally. I hope you like it!
> 
> (Title from _Ultraviolence_ by Lana del Rey)

You’re lingering on James’ doorstep, a smile on your face, eyes twinkling up at him.  

 

Despite the rather intense start to the evening, the two of you had an easy dinner.  He had helped you out in the kitchen, kind of oblivious to the recipe you were working through, but doing what he could to help: chopping veggies, measuring out spices, stirring the pot.  

 

He was sweet and accommodating but also a bit of a distraction.  You couldn’t count on both hands and feet the amount of times you caught yourself ogling at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.  (Little did you know that he noticed every single time, and every single time it made something in his chest flutter a little bit.)

 

You’d let him stand behind you and look over your shoulder when you threw all of the ingredients into the pot.  You distinctly remember the chill that flickered up your spine when you felt his body heat at your back.  You’d had to suppress your instinct to jump a foot into the air.   _He’s like a goddamned ghost, I swear._

 

You may not have heard him come up behind you but once you felt him there, you couldn't imagine standing in the space without his warmth behind you.  He had leaned his metal arm against the counter so he could tilt forward and look into the pot better, and you nearly burned the bottom of the curry when you got distracted staring at the metal plates lined up across the top of his hand like a dragon’s scales.

 

“I think you should stir,” he had murmured gently, his breath disrupting the hair around the crown of your head.  You nodded and snapped out of your trance, face reddening immediately.  Side stepping out of his way, you handed him the spoon and gestured to the pot.

 

“You watch that, I’ll make the rice,” you’d mumbled out, your blush bright on your cheeks.

 

Eventually you’d plated everything and brought it out to his living room.  When you turned the corner from the kitchen and saw him sitting on the couch, you caught him looking down at his metal hand, flexing it gently and watching as the plates slid into their new places.  You couldn’t help the pang of concern you felt in your chest at first, remembering the panic attack he’d had earlier, but it dissipated when he looked up at you and smiled.

 

He _smiled_.

 

Up until then you’d only been able to associate a small smirk and a twinkle of the eyes with his happiness, but he finally flashed you a toothy little grin.  The corners of his eyes had crinkled in the most precious of ways, and the sparkle in those baby blues made your heart forget how to beat for a moment.  It made the butterflies go wild in your stomach, and you’d had to duck your head to hide your reddening face.

 

“It smells great,” he’d remarked when you handed his bowl to him, and you felt a certain giddiness wriggle its way into your chest.

 

“I hope it tastes just as good.”  You chuckled at that and then dug in.  The way James ate… You could swear he’d never seen food before.  You were _maybe_ on your fifth or sixth bite by the time he was finishing his bowl.  You giggled and tilted your head towards the kitchen.  “There’s more than half a pot left, J.”  

 

He looked down at his bowl sheepishly, embarrassed he ate so quickly, it seemed, but you laid a gentle hand on his knee to try and fight off his bashfulness.  “I’m glad you like it so much; remind me to come over and make you some more sometime.”  You shot him a grin before turning back to your own bowl and taking another bite.  He’d shuffled off to the kitchen and gone on to eat three more bowls.

 

You giggle to yourself as you think back on the tender moment you two had shared.

 

James tucks his hands into his pockets and leans against his door frame, gazing down at you with that familiar little curl to his lip.  You two spend probably a bit too long just beaming at each other, a stupid grin on your face and a lopsided smirk on his.  Had it been anyone else, the moment probably would have seemed awkward, but with James, you’re growing to find peace in the comfortable silences.

 

Clearing your throat, you glance down at your feet, fighting off another fit of the giggles.   _I swear I’m turning into a teenage girl again_.  “I… really enjoyed having dinner with you James,” you speak gently, afraid to pop the bubble that you two have so carefully crafted around yourselves.  

 

He chuckles lightly, and runs a hand back through his hair.  You can’t help but watch as all but one piece goes the direction he intended.  The lone lock falls against his cheek, partially concealing one of his metallic baby blues.  Your fingers twitch, wanting to reach up and brush it back for him.  _Don’t be weird_ , you remind yourself.

 

“Me too,” his voice rings out barely louder than yours, yet somehow you feel the baritone in your chest when he says your name.  “Y/N… you really are something.”  He chuckles mostly to himself and tucks the loose cannon strand of hair behind his ear.

 

You’d be lying if you said that your heart didn’t skip a beat when he said that.  He knew it too; he smiles as he watches you lower your head and blush for the millionth time tonight.

 

A beat passes before James sighs.  Contorting his lips into a tense frown, he casts a sidelong glance towards your apartment.  “You shouldn’t… You aren’t safe with him.”  Your head snaps up immediately and you’re already opening your mouth to say something on the defense but James holds up a hand and stops you.  

 

“I’m worried about you,” he says softly.

 

You give him a short nod, not really knowing what to say.   _Lots of people are worried about me, join the club_.  You sigh heavily and look towards your apartment door again, not really seeing any option other than dealing with the bruises and yelling for the rest of your life.

 

“He’s all I have,” your voice is tired now.  These four words are something you’ve said hundreds of times before, and you don’t really know why you keep saying them but for some reason they seem truest to you.  James’ face screws up with some unrecognizable emotion.  Rejection?  Disappointment?  It looked like something unpleasant but before you can mention anything of it, his eyes take on their steely front again.

 

“You’re smarter than this.”  His voice isn’t soft anymore, but firm, and that Russian twirl to his words has returned. It’s almost as if he wants the comment to land like an insult, but you brush it off, already over the conversation.

 

“This isn’t really much of your business,” you sigh, adjusting your purse on your shoulder.

 

“Y/N, I just think-”

 

“James.”

 

He must read it as you putting an end to the conversation.  He nods, pursing his lips in defeat.  He tucks both hands back into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears.  You can tell he’s frustrated but it’s not like there’s much that he could do either.

 

“If you need me, I’m right next door, yeah?”  His voice is soft again and his eyes are wide, offering you his company as a safe space.  You feel your heart grow a few sizes.

 

“Of course,” you barely whisper.

 

Without really thinking about it, you wrap your arms around his waist, tucking your head into his chest and breathing in his scent.  He’s frozen for a moment, no doubt shocked by your sudden display of affection, but after a moment or two he wraps his arms around you, careful not to let his cold metal arm touch you.

 

“Thank you, James,” you mumble into his shirt before you let him go and step back.  You smile somewhat sadly at him, and then turn and walk towards your apartment.  As you open your door to step in, you cast one last glance his way just to see him already watching you.

 

“Be safe, doll.”

 

***

 

The second you step into your apartment, you feel a pair of angry eyes on you.  You tense up in preparation before you even fully close the door.  The sound of skin hitting skin registers before the pain on your face does.

 

“Working late again, whore?”

 

You don’t respond.  You’ve learned by now that talking back just makes him angrier.  You brace yourself for the next blow.  It’s to your stomach this time, and you double over, dropping your bag and keys in favor of wrapping your arms around yourself.  You stay hunched over, half-kneeling, waiting for the kick that usually comes at this point, but it doesn’t.  You’re too afraid to look up at him, so you just stay where you are, waiting.   _Playing possum._

 

“You cheating?”  His voice is right next to your ear and your entire body locks up, every nerve ending zapping, your brain sending distress signals to all of your cells.

 

“N-no I’m n-” you don’t even get to finish before he’s got a hand wrapped up in your hair, dragging you into the living room and throwing you face down into the carpet.  The rough fabric scratches your already stinging cheek, and you cry out even though you know he hates it when you do.

 

“Shut the _fuck_ up!”  He bellows before kicking you just to the side of your spine.  Your brain wants to be glad he missed your spinal cord for once but the resulting throbbing sensation that you feel along the entire right side of your body notifies you that he probably just hit something important.

 

Your vision is beginning to sizzle around the edges and you can feel your head dropping involuntarily.   _Get up, get up, get up_ , your mind screams at you but you’re just too tired, every muscle is too tired.   _I just want to sleep._

 

Ethan crouches down next to you, yanking your hair until his face is right next to yours.  The smell of whiskey washes over you, and you shudder, waiting for another strike.  Your scalp is burning, your head is burning, your ribs are burning, your chest is burning.

 

“You’re nothing but a whore,” he hisses into your ear, his voice sprinkled with humor.  “You’re worth _nothing_ to him, you know that?  He only pays attention to you out of pity,” he spits the words and they sting as if he’s slapped you.   _No_ … no, _James is my friend_.  “You just won’t admit to yourself that I’m the only one who gives a damn about you.”  You cry out quietly, not as a result of physical pain, but because of his words.  

 

That familiar shift in the air sends a shiver down your spine.  It’s like the static that fills the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm, right before the birds decide to flee their homes in favor of safety.  You know that this is when the most dangerous territory arises, the hallucinatory terrain.  These shifts always distort the fabric of reality, and you never know what to make of them.  Ethan gasps and releases you suddenly, a switch being flipped in his brain.  He gently runs a hand through your hair, smoothing back the bedraggled strands.

 

“I’m sorry, Y/N… I love you,” he whispers to you, hands tenderly massaging their way through your locks.  “I really do, I just can’t… Don’t leave me, you can’t leave me.”  The strain in his voice causes him to pause, leaning closer to you until he can look directly into your eyes.  “You know I love you more than anyone else, right?”

 

Your brain is screaming a hundred different things at you and you can’t latch onto any single one of them.  

 

_If he loved you he wouldn’t hurt you._

_But maybe hurting me is how he shows he loves me._

_He’s wrong, he’s manipulating you._

_But what if he’s telling the truth?_

_But James said—_

_James just pities you._

 

Ethan’s eyes are big, brown and beseeching, waiting for your response.  You can’t help but melt into his touch, the feeling of his hands in your hair lulls you into the familiar sense of safety that you feel like you only have with him.  You close your eyes and lean into him, feeling all of your bruises and trauma evaporate.

 

It makes sense.

 

All of this time, he was just protecting you.  He tells you that he loves you more than anyone else ever has.  Anytime he hurts you, it’s because he loves you.  He doesn’t do it out of malice, he does it to protect you.  He helped you to grow a hard exterior, impenetrable to the rest of the world.  He was there for you when no one else was.  He was your only person for the longest time.  There’s nothing other than him.

 

You finally open your eyes and look up at him.  He has the smallest smile on his lips, and your heart clenches at the closeness.

 

“I know.  I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter after this one is the last pre-written bit I have of this fic so if any of you have thoughts on where you'd like for this to go, I'd love to hear! Lmk what you all thought <3


	10. Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after yours and James' evening together, you're sporting a fresh coat of bruises. A talk with James that morning has your head reeling, and let's just say it doesn't go unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna know why Reader and Buck always seem to just hog the elevator and no one ever seems to mind also I hate how snail slow this slow burn is but I promise it'll be worth it
> 
> (Title from _Coming Down_ by Halsey)

“Y/N.”

 

You refuse to look up.  James’ voice is insistent.  You fix your posture and stand up straighter, flipping some of your hair over your shoulder, hoping the motion helps you don some kind of confident disguise.

 

”Y/N, please look at me.”

 

You shake your head, feeling pinpricks at the backs of your eyes.   _Do not cry.  Don’t you dare cry in front of this man_.  You finish locking your door and turn to move towards the elevator, eyes glued to the ground before you.  Punching the button to the elevator, you yank your phone out of your purse and busy yourself with clicking mindlessly around the screen.

 

His presence is hovering behind you, you can feel it.  The hairs on the back of your neck are on end, sensing his eyes on you.  It’s almost as if you’re standing under some kind of shade, his closeness casting what felt like a tangible shadow over you.  His breath fans across the back of your head, and your hair flutters in the wind gust he causes.

 

There’s a moment where you feel the air shift around you, you sense his intake of breath.  His shadow-presence moves toward you and the hair on your arms stands on end. A frustrated sigh, short and sharp.  The manifestation dissipates.

 

 _He reached for my hand_ , you realize.

 

The elevator finally arrives and you barely wait for it to open before you practically leap through the doors.  Crunching yourself into the farthest corner of the metal box, you return your eyes back to your phone, effectively shutting James out.  

 

He sighs as he steps in, but it’s lacking the frustration that you heard before.  He sounds sad…

 

_It’s just pity._

 

He gently pokes the button for the first floor, and he moves to stand in front of the doors like usual, keeping his gaze fastened onto the smooth metal.  You watch him from under your lashes, doing what you can to conceal your concerned peeking.

 

He’s shifting anxiously, which seems incredibly out of character of him.  He’s usually so steadfast and stalwart, always sure of himself. The only time you’ve ever seen him nervous like this was one of the first times you’d run into him, when you’d first asked his name.

 

His hands are clasped behind him, and he’s standing in a position that you’ve come to recognize as the rigid stance of parade rest; the typical soldier’s resting posture.  However, unlike what you’re used to, he’s slowly bouncing on the balls of his feet, and he’s twiddling his thumbs behind his back. As he does so, his hair is bouncing along with the rest of him, and as you notice this, you also realize that his locks are kind of damp, as if he hadn’t fully dried them after a shower.

 

The elevator dings as it arrives on the first floor, and you jump, snapped away from your ogling.  As the doors slide open, you begin to move forward and around James so you can leave for work, but he turns on you, left hand snapping out to press the “close doors” button with a single gloved finger, his eyes never leaving yours.

 

“Hey!”  You exclaim shrilly and let out a disgruntled huff.  You try to push your arm under his to press the button to open the doors again but his right hand shoots out to grasp your wrist—gently—and stop you.  “James what the hell are y-”

 

“Your cheek,” he breathes out, barely above a whisper.

 

Those two words make your heart start going a million miles an hour.   His eyes are focused on the expanse of soft skin just above your jawline—right where Ethan had backhanded you last night.  Ironically he had decided to bruise up the same cheek as the day before, but in a different place, so it was becoming harder and harder for your concealer to do its job.  You don’t know why but James’ stare makes the welt burn, and you can feel the shape of it as it does. You feel your head start shaking before you even process it.

 

“N-no, James don’t start with this you don’t… you don’t know anything okay?”

 

You’re beginning to breathe heavily and you try to take a step back, eyes immediately shooting to where is hand is gripping your wrist.  With a sharp jerk, you tear your arm out of his grasp and stumble backwards, almost teetering into the metal wall of the elevator. James’ knee jerk reaction is to reach out and catch you, but at the panicked fire behind your eyes, he stops in his tracks, immediately dropping his hands to his sides.

 

“You...He hurt you again.”  His voice cracks as he speaks and your heart breaks with it.  If you weren’t literally on the verge of hyperventilating, you would comfort him.

 

“James, _stop_ ,” you gasp out, hands shaking as you grip the straps of your purse.  “Just _stop,_ it’s not your problem, stop trying to make it your business.  It’s not like you _care_.”  At that he takes a shocked step back, his expression morphing into one of hurt as if you’d just struck him.  At the crushed look in his baby blue eyes, your breathing gets even more ragged, and your throat begins to feel like it’s being rubbed raw by your wheezing.

 

The edges of your vision are beginning to crackle and you feel something akin to a cramp beginning to twist and pulse right below your sternum.   _Christ, what is this?_  The muscles behind your jaw are spasming, and you can feel tears gathering on your lashes.

 

Before you realize what’s happened, James is in your space, the steel toes of his combat boots brushing against your sneakers.  He has your right hand clutched in his gloved mechanical hand, holding your palm flat against his chest. _I can feel his heartbeat_ , you think dumbly.  His flesh hand is pressing your left hand to his cheek, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.  His skin is cool and the scruff around his jawline only a little rough against your fingertips, but it immediately lends its comfort to you.

 

“You’re safe here,” he murmurs.  “I’m right here.”

 

It takes only a moment for you to calm yourself, matching your breathing to his, focusing on his heartbeat pounding dully against your palm.  As you settle back down, you finally notice just how much he’s touching you. _His face_ … Without bringing your eyes up from his chest, you direct your attention to his thumb, which is running over the backs of your knuckles gently.   _My hand..._  His metal fingers are splayed in the gaps between yours, their cold exterior palpable through the thin leather glove.  

 

Dragging your eyes up from your linked hands, over his chest, and up to his eyes, you inhale shakily.  It feels like eons go by before either of you moves or speaks. James’ honey coated voice rolls out of him like molten chocolate, and you feel the rumble of the words in his chest, just beneath your trembling hand.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

You nod slowly, dazed.

 

“Y-Yeah…”  There’s something delicate hanging in the air between the two of you.  “I… Thank you, James,” you whisper, your voice a bit hoarse.

 

He nods, eyes still wide and focused on your own.  The mask of concern on his face is so intense and genuine that it sends a chill up your spine.

 

“I learned it from you,” the words uncurl from his lips, as gentle as a hum, and a small smile finds its way onto his face.

 

A crease appears on your forehead as you look up at him, bewildered, but the question dies on your lips before you even ask it, remembering last night.

 

 _You bring his metal hand close to you and notice that it’s shaking_ —he _is shaking._

 

_“Hey, hey, you’re shaking, what’s wrong?”  His eyes are flitting back and forth between you and his hand and there seems to be something akin to panic in them.  Instinctively you let go of his metal hand and lift your own up to cup his cheek, concern painting your features. “James, talk to me,” you whisper.  His whole body is trembling and you aren’t quite sure what to do to help him._

 

_“Hey, look at me, you’re alright okay?  You’re safe here,” the words fall out between the sound of you gently shushing him. His eyes start to water a bit and you rub a thumb across his cheekbone slowly, growing more and more concerned.  You hear more whirring, quick and incessant now, and you glance down to see that his metal hand is opening and closing rapidly, as if he’s grasping for something._

 

_You look up at his face again searching for something to signal you as to what it is that’s going on with him but with no clues in sight you just continue shushing him and stroking his cheek gently.  “I’m right here,” you whisper. The metallic noises continue and his hand is still opening and closing, flattening and then clenching. Grabbing it up, you rest it against your cheek, leaning your face into his hand, hoping maybe the pressure could help bring him back to some sense of reality or stability. Whatever he was experiencing wasn’t something physical._

 

_The second the cool metal of his hand makes contact with your face, the whirring as well as the movements cease, and it’s as if the clouds in his eyes clear up and he snaps back to._

 

“You okay?”  He asks again, worry weaving its way into his words as he watches your eyes slide from his face down to his chin, lost in thought.  “Y/N?”

 

Your head snaps up and you blink a few times, clearing your head.  “Y-yeah, yeah, sorry, um… Can we…?” Tilting your chin up and towards the elevator doors, you hope he gets the gist.  A spark of realization brightens his eyes for a moment, and he—tentatively and tenderly—releases first your right hand from his metallic grip, and then the other from his face.  Before he moves away from you, however, he reaches out his flesh hand and runs a soft thumb across your cheekbone, sweeping away the smallest teardrop.

 

Stepping away from you, he presses a finger to the “open door” button, and moves aside to allow you to step out before him.   _Back to the basics, I guess._  Once outside your building, you both amble around the front stoop, avoiding each other’s eyes.  Steeling yourself, you take a deep breath.

 

“James you don’t need to worry about me.”  Your voice is steadier than you expected, stern and even.  His eyes flicker up to yours and his brows hitch up. “D...Don’t give me that damn look,” you huff out what some would consider a laugh.

 

“I can’t help worrying.”  His voice is so grave you almost tear up all over again.

 

“God, don’t do that.  I don’t need pity,” your voice is shaking again and you shiver when you’re hit with a gust of wind.   _Get it together._

 

“Y/N, this ain’t pity, alright?  I’m concerned about your safety.”  He’s got his arms crossed tightly across his chest, and he moves to his left, helping to block you from the chilling wind.

 

“James you don’t… He said-”

 

“What did he say?”  His voice is hard and his eyes have gone steely again.

 

“N-Nothing, he didn’t…”   _God I’m so pathetic._

 

He gently lays his flesh hand on your arm, and you can see in his eyes his flight instinct trying to take over, but a flicker of determination lights up his gaze and he gives you a reassuring squeeze and a genuine little smile and _Christ_ , that smile.

 

“On my Ma, I don’t pity you.  I just care, and I know…” he trails off, jaw clenching as his eyes flit around your face, all of a sudden unable to meet your eyes.  He licks his lips nervously before continuing. “I know what it’s like to be hurt, and not be able to see a way out okay? It sucks and it’s hard to be objective about… about how you’re not being treated right, okay?”  His jaw clenches again and you watch his masseter muscle jump, the vein right next to it sticking out. “I refuse to let you live that.”

 

At his words you feel your own heart clench and you want to ask about what he means, but you decide against it, seeing some kind of dull pain hidden deep within them.  With a sharp nod, you lay your hand on top of his resting atop your arm and run your thumb across his knuckles. _I guess this is our thing now_.  You let out a breathy chuckle, causing James to throw you a wary glance.

 

“What?”  You can hear reluctant amusement dripping into his tone.  Shaking your head and giggling again, you stare up into his soft sky eyes, your own twinkling with mirth.

 

“I think that may have been the most you’ve said to me at once since we’ve met.”

 

James chuckles lowly, rolling his eyes at you and playfully shoving you away.  Before you move back too far, you grab his wrist and pull him to you, instantly wrapping your arms around his lithe waist and burying your face in his chest.  You feel his arms wrap around you and he rests his chin on top of your head.

 

“Thank you, James” you breathe.

 

“Anything for you, doll.”

 

***

 

“Okay, girl, what is _up_ with you?”  Rosalie’s incredulous inflection snaps you out of your daze as you wipe down the bar.

 

All morning you had been… let’s not say lovestruck.  Let’s just say bubble headed. You were pretty much walking on air.  You’d shown up to work just in time, avoiding Cason’s berating. You hadn’t messed up a single order, dropped a single dish, or fumbled a single tray.  You made it through the entire day without stuttering or embarrassing yourself in front of any customers, and your tips were bountiful so far. It wasn’t even halfway through the lunch rush.  Something about yours and James' talk this morning had given you something to look forward to and daydream about, but you didn't quite know what.

 

“Nothin’ Rosie,” you mumble out around a stupid little smile.

 

“Y/N, you haven’t smiled this much since... _ever_ , what the hell.  I’ve known you for years now and I only see you this cheeky when you’re shitfaced,” she scoffs, delivering a quick pinch to your ass.

 

“Rose!”  You yelp, swatting her hand away with your dry towel, both of you falling into a fit of giggles.  Quieting your laughter when a few customers look your way, you poke her in the side and whisper “Mind your business, Miss Rosalie.”  She narrows her eyes skeptically, a tiny smirk playing on her lips.

 

“You dump him?”  Her voice still has the amused edge to it but her smile drops.

 

“Dump who?”  You ask dumbly before you see the look on Rose’s face.  “ _Oh_.  Yeah no I’m… We’re still together.”  Your mood immediately drops, and your face with it.

 

You’d gone nearly the entire day without thinking about Ethan, but now that you’ve remembered his existence… _God, what a mess_.  The ghost feeling of his knuckles striking your cheek last night has you flinching unconsciously, and you shrink in on yourself.  Remembering yourself, your eyes zip up to meet Rosalie’s and as she sees the look in your eyes, she grabs your wrist, dragging you into the break room.  She closes the door and turns on you with her arms crossed firmly across her chest. Her eyes burn into you.

 

“Speak.”

 

You tell her everything, the words just tumble out like the avalanche that is your life.  You tell her all about how you spent the majority of your evening with James, how you made him dinner, how you spoke so vulnerably with each other.  You tell her about how he kept reminding you to be safe, how he had called you _doll_.

 

You tell her about how after you got back to your apartment Ethan was enraged.  You show her the welt-turned-bruise beneath your concealer. You tell her about James this morning, his reaction, his anger, his empathy.  You tell her how he held you whilst helping bring you down from a panic attack. (You exclude the part of your conversation where he mentioned his own personal suffering; it wasn’t your story to tell, no matter how vague he was).  

 

After finishing everything, you sit back in the chair you’re slouching in, covering your face with both hands and sighing heavily.  Your whole body slumps down in the chair and you feel your legs begin to tremble a bit as you think back on the absurdity that was the last 24 hours of your life.

 

“Oh...My...God…”  Rosalie’s voice is quiet but you can hear the amazement in her words.  “Y/N, you’re a clown.”

 

At that you scoff loudly, sitting up straight and slapping your hands to your thighs.  “The fuck, Rose?”

 

“How are you this blind?!  I did not friend-raise you to be like this!  Jesus.” She heaves an exasperated sigh and roughly runs her hands back through her hair, smoothing down the mussed black strands.

 

“What the hell are you on about?”  You’re on the verge of annoyed, not sure what she’s getting at but not exactly ecstatic about how she’s implying you’re stupid.

 

“Y/N,” she enunciates like you’re a five year old child and you sigh, rolling your eyes.  “Ethan? Abusive asshole. James? Sweet man. Leave Ethan. Cuff James.”

 

You scoff at your best friend’s foolishness.  “It’s—Rose it’s not that simple and you _know_ it.”  You lean forward and rest your elbows on your knees letting your head hang between your shoulders.  “He...He’s all I have,” you whisper, voice breaking.

 

“No.  Uh-uh.  Don’t start that shit with me because you and me _both_ know it’s a lie.”  She leans forward, using a single finger under your chin to lift your face up until the two of you are making direct eye contact.  “ You have me and I’ve offered you so much help in these last few years, you’re just too goddamn stubborn to accept it, fuckin’ hubris.”  You scoff, and she jabs her index finger into your chest, gritting her teeth. “Guess what, Odysseus? That’s not all. You now also have James, who’s literally living right next door from you.  Not only is he willing to help, but he’s also encouraging you to get off your ass and leave Ethan.” She leans back, appraising you with narrowed eyes. “You’re smart, honey. Don’t let yourself do this longer than you already have.”

 

You know, in your heart of hearts that she’s right, that you need to leave Ethan.  You’ve known this for a while now, you’re no idiot. There’s just something so _impossible_ about the concept of not having him in your life anymore.  Just thinking of the hole that he’d leave makes you shudder, and you have to hold in a whimper.

 

“But...Rose I-I need him,” you breathe.  You’re staring down at your hands and watching them shake.  Rosie’s hands come into your field of vision when she cups both of your hands in hers.

 

“Do you, Y/N?  Or is that just what he’s been making you believe?”

 

Your breath catches in your throat and you feel tears beginning to sting at the backs of your eyes.  You rip your hands from hers, standing up abruptly and knocking the chair you’d been sitting on into the wall.  You don’t know why, but her words make your chest burn and your stomach churn, and for a moment you think you’re gonna vomit or faint or both.

 

You open your mouth to respond but you’re cut off by the sound of Cason screeching you and Rose’s names from the front of the restaurant.  With a sigh of relief, you turn towards the door. You really have no clue how to respond, and you’re thankful for Cason giving you an out so you don’t have to.

 

With a solemn glance over your shoulder to Rosie, you shake your head slowly, and head through the break room door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do we all feel about James and Y/N's talk?? And what about her and Rosalie's discussion?? I'd love to hear any predictions/expectations you all have!!


	11. Use Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With James and Rosalie's words running laps around your mind all day, you finally come to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really minimal and there's literally no dialogue but it sets up the chapter after this perfectly plus you all get another taste of Bucky's POV. I hope you like it!
> 
>  
> 
> (This chap's title is from _Cold Blooded_ by Khalid)

The rest of the day at work, your conversation with Rosalie kept replaying in your mind.  Everything that she said made sense, and you would be lying if you said that you haven’t already brought up some of those points to yourself.

 

You _know_ that he’s cruel to you, you _know_ you deserve better, you _know_ you don’t need him.

 

_So why are you staying?_

 

Because he was there for you when you had no one. Because he helped you figure out how to survive in such a hectic city.  Because he made you into who you _are_. Were it not for him, you’d probably still be working at that seedy dive bar where you got your ass grabbed on the daily meanwhile you made less than min wage under the table.  You would still be living in that hideously overpriced apartment—hell, you’d probably be in a cardboard box under the bridge by now. You owed the man your life.

 

 _No,_ you chastise yourself. _I don’t owe him anything, not anymore._

 

The second he put his hands on you, he lost the right to your compassion, to your love.  The night that he hit you for the first time, he broke your trust and there was no way he could ever redeem himself.  No matter how many times he ran his hands through your hair and apologized and peppered your face with kisses—he still hurt you.  It was unforgivable.

 

Rosalie has been telling you for months, and James has been telling you for weeks.  They were both right. No one deserved to be treated the way that Ethan has been treating you, and it’s a wonder you haven’t done something about it sooner.

 

As you straighten up from wiping down a table, you set your shoulders and collect the now-full dish bucket. Exhaling slowly, you nod sharply, having come to a decision.

 

_I’m leaving him._

 

***

 

Bucky couldn’t focus all day.

 

He had cleaned his whole apartment, done the laundry, vacuumed the living room twice, gone for three walks, and yet he still came back, restless as ever.  He could hear the TV on in your apartment through the thin walls and he knew that your piece of shit boyfriend was home, like always. He was fighting every instinct he had to go over and beat the worthless man to a pulp.

 

Every time Bucky sees the evidence of that weak man’s maltreatment littering your skin or causing grief in your eyes, his blood sings with rage.  Every time he hears muffled yelling through the walls, the plates in his metal arm go crazy. Every time he sees you, his heart aches. It’s nothing new.

 

For some reason, though, today set him off.

 

In the elevator that morning, Bucky had nearly snapped right there in front of you.  He had to fight off the screaming voice in his head, begging him to turn right around, kick down your door, and punch your boyfriend’s teeth in.

 

You had ignored him in the hallway and he had felt a gross fear settle in his gut like a boulder, weighing him down.  _Does she hate me?_  Dread gripped at his throat when he’d choked out your name, chasing you into the elevator.  When the two of you had finally reached the bottom floor, he had had enough of the deafening silence, and his anxiety had gotten the best of him.

 

He’d cornered you, nearly forgetting himself.  The anger was misdirected, but the sight of more discoloring painting your pretty face had him in a blind fury.  When he’d seen fear flicker in your eyes, heard your breathing grow uneven, he knew he needed to fix it before you came to hate him even more.  Before he could, however, you’d already tumbled into a panic attack. Without giving himself time to (over)think, Bucky had been in your space, mimicking the position that you two had been in the night before; it was the only way he knew to calm you.

 

When you’d relaxed against him, and he felt that you were alright, he’d instantly regretted accosting you the way he did.  He’d wiped away the tear he’d caused, chest full of fire and ice all at once. Buck knew that confronting you about your bane was just about the worst way to go about it—hell he should know better than anyone; he’s got more than a few demons to dance with.

 

Outside, on the sidewalk, Bucky watched as your armor crumbled little by little.  Your dismissive comments and defenses grew weaker and weaker. He watched you taste your lies, wishing that you would just _see_.  He needed you to just say it yourself, to _know_ in your heart of hearts that you didn’t deserve what was happening to you, that you deserved so much better.

 

Despite the frustration that bubbled up within him whenever you tried to brush off his concern, Bucky knew that he needed to give you his undying patience and sympathy.  Fish don’t know that they’re wet, and you don’t know that you needed to walk away from that man. Your whole world was so sodden with despondency that you feared the sensation of hope.

 

When he’d looked down at you, Bucky couldn’t help but see a projection of himself standing before him, shaking and vulnerable, blaming himself for all of the atrocities done to him.  He recognized that all too familiar heinous weight, the condemnation that you’d dealt yourself. Bucky wanted to reach out and pluck those thoughts from your head.

 

Regardless of the spark he had to rescue you, he knew just how vital it was to allow you to do it at your own pace.  He refused to push you or displace you in any way, because he also knew all too well the utter chaos of freedom. He knew the pandemonium that he felt fresh out of Hydra’s grasp, unsure how to function in a world without orders, without blood.  He knew the reality of not knowing how to allow himself to be free, to feel the sun on his face without worrying about being dragged back to a cement cell underground.

 

Bucky also knew more than anything else that he would stand right beside you in your cell, until you built your strength to step outside, to feel the sun.

 

No matter what, he would be there for you, because at the very least, you deserve that.

 

***

 

As you stand before your front door, you feel yourself beginning to revert back to your old timid ways.  You can already hear the anger in Ethan’s voice, words he always throws at you like bullets running through your mind.  

 

_"Dumb whore."_

 

_"Piece of shit."_

 

 _"Idiot."_  

 

Your shoulders drop as you think of how angry he would be if you went through with this.

 

“Shit,” you grumble aloud to yourself, running a hand over your face in frustration.  

 

A flurry of images flash through your mind, and your chest tightens in fear.  You see Ethan’s face, red with rage, eyes wide. His arm pulled back, wound up to strike you.  His teeth bared as he growls insults at you, a hand gripping the bottom of your face. His big brown eyes, this time soft, full of tears as he apologizes.  His hands in your hair as he moves against you and whispers that he loves you, he’s sorry, he loves you, he loves you.

 

_He doesn’t._

 

Your ribs ache, a low throb running down the side of your torso.  Your cheek is still red and swollen, jaw bruised from his slap from over a week ago.  Your scalp is tender and you feel the ghosts of his hands as they wrapped up in your hair, yanking you around like you were a ragdoll.  A toy.

 

You hear James’ voice in your head, severe as he reminds you that no one who loves someone treats them the way that Ethan treats you.  You see James’ warm eyes, his soft smile.

 

_"I know what it’s like to be hurt, and not be able to see a way out okay?  It sucks and it’s hard to be objective about… about how you’re not being treated right, okay?  I refuse to let you live that."_

 

A shiver runs up your spine, and you huff out a breath.

 

_I need to do this._

 

_I need to get out._

 

With a deep breath, you twist your key and turn the knob, stepping into your apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGERS I KNOW I'M SORRY I had midterms this week so I had little to no writing time buuuut these little snippets feel kinda important to me so I hope you all don't hate me too much. I know the next chapter will make up for it! Let me know what you all thought <3


	12. Glory and Gore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you return home to finally confront Ethan, things go all kinds of wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said last chapter that this chapter would make up for the cliffhanger... please don't hate me :~/
> 
> (Title from _Glory and Gore_ by Lorde)

Bucky’s pacing his apartment, running his hands back through his hair. He hisses as a few strands get caught between the plates on one of his metal fingers and snag, pulling at his scalp. With a frustrated sigh, he drops his arms back down to his sides.

 

He had left at his normal time to go on his evening stroll to the park and write, hoping to have something routine in his weirdly hectic day. Something about the park made him remember the most random things, so he made a vow weeks ago to take a walk there every day with his journal so he could record everything that came back to him. Since meeting you, the memories came even more, and they were more vivid than before.

 

Usually when he returns home from his walks, Bucky runs into you—he’s nearly perfected his timing so that you two end up leaving the building and returning from your outings at around the same times. He really enjoys spending time with you, and he genuinely cannot remember ever feeling as at ease with someone—though that’s not saying much.

 

When he had come home this evening, however, he didn’t see you in the lobby downstairs, like he usually does. He didn’t run into you in the elevator either, nor in the hallway on your shared floor. He’d felt disheartened at first, but obviously there was nothing to really be done. _I’ll try to catch her tomorrow_ , he’d thought to himself. When he’d trudged his way into his apartment, he heard it: yelling. He knew exactly what was going on.

 

Now, Bucky chews on his thumbnail frantically, doing what he can to control himself. Every nerve ending in his body is buzzing with anxious energy, screaming for him to propel himself out of his front door and over to yours. His brain is begging him to kick it down, walk in, and grab up your good-for-nothing boyfriend by the collar. He quite literally wants nothing more than to get rid of that man, eradicating him from your life forever.

 

Another shout.

 

His metal arm starts whirring loudly, the sound pitching up into a strained whining noise as he clenches his fist angrily and resists the urge to punch a wall. He can hear the muted sound of that disgrace of a man yelling at you through the walls, as well as your subsequent yelp. This has been going on for nearly twenty minutes, shouting and the sound of things being thrown around. It doesn’t sound like you’ve been hurt yet but a chill runs up Bucky’s spine when he hears what sounds like a body slamming into a wall.

 

“Christ,” Buck grunts, agonized by the prospect of you being in pain.

 

He knows he could easily walk through that door and end your boyfriend, snapping his scrawny little neck and ceasing the suffering he inflicts on you. He knows how goddamn simple it would be to get rid of him and whisk you away—how easy it would be to protect you. But he can’t, he shouldn’t. Your life isn’t his to fuck around with.

 

Bucky hears your broken voice, muffled through the wall, but broken nonetheless. He frenziedly rips his hands through his hair again, letting out a desperate wheeze. There’s something so excruciating about knowing how much terror you must be experiencing and not being able to do anything about it. _Well there is something I can do, I just promised that I wouldn’t_ , he reminds himself. He’d never explicitly said it to you but he knew how important it would be for you to make this decision for yourself.

 

Even with his enhanced hearing, he can only make out a few words here and there. Over the course of the conversation—if one could even call it that—Bucky could hear your voice getting lower, more lethargic, and your boyfriend’s getting higher pitched and more frantic as time went on. The way that you sound like you’re slowing down makes Buck’s ears ring. _Something’s wrong_. The sound of glass shattering assaults his senses and he feels sick.

 

Things go suspiciously silent on the other side and Buck’s breath catches in his throat. He runs over to the wall of his dining area, knowing that your living room lies just on the other side; he presses his head against the barrier, straining his ears, trying to hear something, _anything_. Suddenly, your voice cuts through the stillness, weak and crackling.

 

 _“Ethan, p-please stop,”_ he hears you gasp out.

 

 _She sounds like she can’t breathe why can’t she breathe?_ Buck’s heart rate picks up even more and panic darts through his limbs. His whole body is now pressed against the wall, trying to get as close as he physically can. All he can hear is your labored wheezing and what sounds like your boyfriend struggling against something, grunting and huffing.

 

 _“Choke and die, you stupid cunt,”_ he grits out. Buck just barely picks up the sound of your choked off whimper, followed by a faint cry.

 

Within seconds, Bucky’s brain has put two and two together, and it’s as if his lungs are collapsing in on themselves. The corners of his vision start to sizzle and before his brain can even process it, his legs have carried him to his door. His eyes are unseeing as he rips it open and launches himself the few yards to your apartment. Without pausing to think, he slams his metal arm into your flimsy door. He doesn’t notice the way that the wood splinters and flies every which way, nor the look of shock on your boyfriend’s face. He doesn’t even see the fear on yours.

 

All he sees is red.

 

***

 

The second you step into your apartment, you’re greeted with the smell of fettuccini alfredo—your favorite. A swell of nostalgia hits you like a truck as you remember all of the times that Ethan would cook for you after a long day at work, back before he…changed. You have to fight off the sad smile that tries to find its way to your lips as you close the door behind you. At the sound, Ethan pops his head around the corner, deep sienna eyes sparkling with untouched mirth.

 

“Hey baby girl, how was work?!”

 

It takes every ounce of your being to keep from flinching when you hear the happiness in his voice. The glee sounds so foreign coming from your boyfriend’s mouth. Your body is tempted to melt into the comfort on of it on pure instinct, but you remain on edge, prepared for him to snap at any moment. _This doesn’t feel right_.

 

“Um… fine, I guess.” Your voice is wary as you set your purse and keys down, following Ethan into the kitchen. “Wh…what’s all this?” Gesturing around towards the stove and counters, you raise your eyebrows in question. It’s been months since he’s cooked—even longer since he’s made fettuccini alfredo. He always saved that for special occasions: anniversaries, birthdays, the important stuff. He missed the last two anniversaries as well as your last birthday but that’s beside the point.

 

“I uh… I wanted to do something nice for you…”  Ethan trails off, scratching the back of his head and having the audacity to look bashful. “I know things have been rough lately.” You feel a tug at your heartstrings when you think of just how boyish and innocent he looks. Pausing, you take a moment to really look at him.

 

His soft honey colored curls are a floppy mess atop his head, further ruffled by his anxious hands. His eyes are soft and warm, like you haven’t seen them in what feels like eons, and his mouth is half-quirked into a sheepish little smile. The smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones look so delicate against his otherwise sharp features and you nearly swoon at the sight. You can almost see the man you fell in love with.

 

_Almost._

Crossing your arms over yourself, you do your best to stand up as tall as possible. _I’m not falling for his make up act_ — _not again_. With a somber sigh, you ready yourself to speak before you lose your nerve, ignoring the dull ache that you feel in your chest. “Ethan, we need to talk—” you’re cut off when he slams a heavy fist onto the counter top. You jump, only barely managing to bite down your shocked yelp.

 

“You can never just fucking say ‘thank you’, can you? Huh?!” Suddenly he’s in your face, hot breath fanning over you. You’re too stunned to move or even respond. “Can’t be fucking grateful? I made you your favorite goddamn meal, Y/N, to do something _nice_ , because _I’m nice_ , and you go and shit all over it, is that it?!”

 

The confidence you’d donned before you walked through the door dissipates into thin air. You immediately begin reverting back to your submissive temperament, hunching your shoulders and hiding behind your hair. You fearfully gaze up at Ethan, mouth opening and closing dumbly as you try to determine whether or not you’re meant to respond.

 

Before you can decide, however, Ethan’s grabbed a handful of your hair and snapped your head back. Your knees buckle and you cry out loudly, completely caught off guard. He’s leaning over you now, snarling in your face and growling through his clenched teeth like a goddamn rabid dog.

 

“You’re a piece of shit you know that? I go out of my way to make you happy and you can’t even bother to show some gratitude! You just brush me off and then prance off and _fuck_ our _neighbor_.” He emphasizes his reference to James with a sharp wrench of your hair. Your eyes are wide and watery now and your brain hasn’t fully caught up to what’s happening yet. Features clouding over with confusion, you begin to splutter.

 

“N-no, Ethan _no_ , I’m n-not,” you wince when he tugs at your scalp again, “I’m not sleeping with him, I p-promise. Ethan, _please_ you’re hurting me,” you blubber. At that his eyes widen a bit, as if he’s only just realized what he’s done. You grow optimistic for a moment, hoping that he’ll stop before he does any more damage.

 

With a sigh, Ethan nods, loosening his grip on your hair. “I believe you,” he murmurs, moving his hand to pet the top of your head. Leaning close, he nuzzles his nose against the side of your face and you don’t even try to stop yourself from melting against him. There’s a moment of peace, where you think you’re safe again—and then the levee breaks. Chuckling darkly, Ethan snatches at your hair again, yanking you towards the ground and slamming you against the cold tile of the kitchen floor. “No one would wanna fuck you anyways,” comes his hissed taunt.

 

The jounce of the floor against your temple has you reeling, barely able to sit all the way back up. The only thoughts your brain can manage to form are _get away, get away from him_. Now you’re cowering against the cabinets in the corner of your kitchen, knees pulled to your chest in a feeble attempt at protecting yourself.

 

“Ethan, _p-please,_ ” is all you can sob out before he’s screaming at you.

 

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” Swiping a hand across the counter, he sends containers of seasonings flying. They clatter to the corner of the kitchen directly across from you and you watch with wide eyes as several bottles pop and shatter, spilling their contents everywhere. Scrambling even further into the corner you’re hiding in, you whimper as a few hot tears begin to make their way down your face. This only enrages him more.

 

“Oh, you’re crying now? Way to play the victim, you bitch,” he growls out. Crossing the room in a single stride, he goes to snag at your hair again. On instinct, you clamber back, blubbering and begging him to stop. When he misses his first grab at you, he huffs and settles for snatching you up by your shirt with both hands, hauling you off of the ground. He lifts you up just to throw you back to the floor again, rattling your brain around.

 

This time you don’t even bother trying to sit up again, just curling in on yourself and sobbing into your knees, eyes squeezed shut. It’s hard to believe that not even ten minutes ago you’d walked in here, prepared to finally tell him that he needed to leave. You were so ready to finally fight back this time, to push him back, to scream just as loud, match him tit for tat.

 

And now here you are, a sobbing mess on the ground.

 

“Look at me,” Ethan grumbles out. His voice is quieter now, but the sharpness hasn’t faded in the slightest. When you don’t respond to him, you hear him huff. “I said: Look. At. _Me_.” You feel him step closer, bend down, prepare to strike you. You don’t move an inch.

 

Suddenly you’re lofted across the room, harsh hands gripping your shoulders hard enough to bruise, before you slam into the wall, face first. You’re so stunned that you don’t even hear yourself cry out; the only sound you can hear is your blood rushing through your ears. The shock of the impact has your brain moving in slow motion, like you’ve been drinking. Your thoughts slosh around uselessly as you sluggishly bring your eyes up from the floor. Ethan now has you properly pinned to the wall, rough grasp locked onto your biceps in a death grip. Face inches from yours, cheeks tinged red with rage, he speaks to you, voice stony and calm.

 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” You can barely hold your head up, barely focus on his words. “Look at me, Y/N,” his voice cracks slightly and it catches your attention enough to finally drag your gaze up to his face. It’s as if your body and brain are caught up in a fog—you’re looking at him but you’re not seeing him.

 

“Ethan…”  Your words die on your lips. Something is ringing, like a siren, and it’s dull but too loud all at once. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s just your ears.

 

“Y/N, answer me, baby,” he’s murmuring now, in that voice that used to soothe you. There’s an edge of impatience to it but the thumb that he rubs against your arm distracts you from the threatening lilt to his words.

 

“I-I don’t know wha’ y’want me t’ say.” The slurring of your words should be a concern to you but you can’t bring yourself to properly care. _What were the symptoms of concussions again? Ringing in your ears, confusion, fatigue…_ Your whole body aches with a longing for your bed.

 

“Who the _fuck_ d’you think you are?” The smell of cigarettes on his breath makes you want to vomit when he heaves a dry sob. “Y-You ignore me for that—that fucking _gimp_ next door and when I try to show you how much I love you, you dismiss me? You’re fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” He asserts his point by pulling you away from the wall and shoving you back against it roughly. Your head lolls to the side uselessly.

 

You can’t stitch together your thoughts effectively enough to respond and your silence must piss Ethan off even more. In the blink of an eye, he’s dragged you across the wall—knocking down picture frames and shattering their glass panes—and to the floor, trapping you beneath him with his hands clasped tightly around your throat.

 

The adrenaline now singing through your veins must wake up your listless brain because you start clawing at his hands, wheezing and panting. What little air you manage to properly inhale makes your chest sting, and it feels like there’s a fire being lit in your lungs. All you can see is Ethan’s face, and you feel tears run down your cheeks faster and faster as the room starts to spin.

 

The unfiltered fury in his eyes makes firecrackers go off all up and down your spine.  Something in you shifts into place. _He’s going to kill me this time._ You’re trying your best to speak when you feel his grip tighten even more.  _The last thing I’m ever going to see is him_. The tears are coming faster and you’re opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water. For a moment, his grip falters and you gasp, choking on the air that you manage to take in.

 

“Ethan, p-please stop,” you wheeze out, the air leaving your lungs. The edges of your vision start to fade and crackle and you stop grappling at his arms for a moment.  _Maybe it’d be better if I die._  He shifts his weight, pressing more of it down onto your neck and you almost don’t even notice. He’s crowding your face now, a merciless sneer warping his face into something that can only be described as grotesque.

 

“Choke and die, you stupid cunt,” he grits out. He pushes even more of his mass down onto you, and you watch as the black fog creeps in over all of your vision.  _This is really it_...

 

Your mind flits to the utopia that you might find on the other side of this. A world without bruises and scars and screaming and shoving—a world without Ethan. You think of how you won’t miss this small apartment in this claustrophobic city. You think of how much won’t miss about this stupid little life you let _him_ build for you, without anything to look forward to, to miss.

 

Except...

 

You’ll miss James. His tender azure eyes that remind you of a cloudless sky. The way his lips tip up the slightest bit when he’s too reluctant to smile fully—the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he can no longer fight off his dazzling grin. The sound of his laugh, that rare goddamn gem, that makes your cheeks heat up and your heart melt. His halcyon presence, always making you feel like he’ll protect you from the sun if you asked it of him.You’re not certain how heaven works, but you hope whoever’s up there lets you in; maybe you’ll have your own James there.

 

Your muscles begin to relax, one by one, as you feel yourself slowly begin to slip out of consciousness. It’s like you’re on a boat, swaying back and forth on stormy seas.  _Maybe I should just let go…_

 

The moment you finally accept the black waves trying to wash over you, you’re snapped back into reality at a breakneck speed. Air fills your lungs so rapidly and vehemently that you feel your ribs groan and your eyes shoot back open against your wishes. Your gaze first lands on Ethan, who you see staring off to the side, face a perfect mask of astonishment. Your vision is blurry with tears when you follow his line of sight and see a hulking figure looming in your front entryway, the shrapnel of your front door all around his feet. When he steps forward, you watch as the light from your kitchen glints off of something large and metal at his side. A metal arm.

 

 _James_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split what I already had written in half or else it would've been like 7k I'm so sorry for throwing you another cliffhanger I'll go crawl in a hole now bye don't hate me


	13. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When James breaks down your door and handles Ethan, you're faced with a side of him that he never intended for you to have to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't come out exactly like I had planned it in my head, and I'm not in love with it, but I hope you guys like it! I was gonna add the fluff to come afterwards in this chapter but I thought it would be best to work slower when it came to this shift in dynamic. I hope y'all enjoy! 
> 
> (Chapter title from _Control_ by Halsey)
> 
> ** Strong warning for graphic violence and also general Bad Shit that tends to piggy back on Winter Soldier related stuff (Russian translations in the end notes; once again I used google translate lol don't kill me)

Moments stretch into eons as you hold your breath and stare.

 

With his chest heaving and his fists clenched, James stands in your entryway, silhouette highlighted by the faint glow coming from your kitchen.  His head is heavy, lowered between his shoulders and his dark brown waves of hair are falling all around his face.  The way he’s holding himself… _something’s wrong_.

 

You sit up, glancing towards Ethan only to see that he’s just as puzzled as you are.  You can practically see his brain short circuiting.  Warily, you sit yourself up on your knees, suddenly starting to piece the situation together.

 

His posture… the twitchiness of his metal fingers… the incessant whirring coming from his arm… _Oh no_.

 

“J-James,” you croak out, trying to hide the effects of Ethan strangling you.

 

You watch as James flinches, and slowly brings his hardened gaze up from the ground.  His eyes…

 

They’re empty.

 

The normally kind and dazzling blue-gray of his irises looks unnervingly dull and cold, practically the same color as his metal arm; it’s like all of him has been taken over by steel.   _His movements even look robotic_ , you think, _like he’s turned into a machine_.

 

Suddenly your heart’s in your throat, and it’s like time is going in slow motion.

 

You watch, stock-still, as James stalks towards Ethan, metal fingers flexing and twitching every step of the way.  When he closes the distance between him and Ethan, he raises the arm and you can hear the high-pitched whining of the gears and other apparatuses within it.  Some small part of your brain is screaming at you to move out of the line of fire, but something else has you rooted to the spot; whether it be fear, disorientation, or exhaustion, you’re not sure, but it’s rendering you immobile.

 

You’re suddenly snapped out of your shock induced stupor when you hear the frankly gruesome sound of impact when the heel of James’ metal palm strikes Ethan’s chest.  There’s a horrific cracking noise, and you watch wide-eyed as your boyfriend’s body is flung backwards and into your coffee table.  The cheap wood splits and shatters beneath him as he lands and he lets out a pained groan through clenched teeth.

 

“F-fucking psychopath!”  Ethan spits, trying to sit up and breathe, though it seems his body isn’t quite capable of doing both at the same time.

 

In seconds, James is on him, left arm glinting as it fists into Ethan’s shirt, holding him in place.  His flesh hand is rearing back, knuckles white as his fist arcs through the air.  His punch to Ethan’s jaw lands with a sickening crunch and you watch as James cocks his arm back again, prepared to strike once again.

 

It’s at this moment that your body decides to work.

 

“James, _stop!_ ”  Jumping up on wobbly legs, you move to stand.  James turns towards you, face expressionless.  You stammer and fumble for the right words, unnerved by his cold stare.  “D-don’t, you don’t n-need to...”  It’s like your brain forgot how speaking works.  “Please stop.”

 

At that, James releases Ethan, who falls limply atop the debris that was once a coffee table.  He turns to you, squinting slightly, as if you’re an equation that he isn’t sure how to solve.  His head tilts to the side a fraction of an inch, and you swear you see something light up behind those icy eyes, but within milliseconds the mask is back.

 

Your own eyes are frantic and watery as they lock onto his, searching them for something, _anything_ , that will tell you what in _sweet_ _fuck_ to do.  They’re just as dark, as dead, as when he first walked into the room and you feel bile rise up in your throat.

 

“James, t-talk to me,” you murmur brokenly, not sure if your panic or your injuries were the cause of the crackling in your voice.  “Please.”

 

He doesn’t react, doesn’t move, and for a moment you’re not sure he’s even heard you.  Your anxiety-muddled brain causes you to lose all common sense, and you reach out a hand to rest it on James’ left shoulder.  He jerks and whirls away from you, severe eyes still glued to yours.

 

“J-James, you’re scaring me,” you whisper.  Your whole body begins to shake at his next words.

 

“Proch’ s dorogi.”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

The combination of the Russian and his dispassionate tone makes your chest want to cave in on itself, like someone’s squeezing all of the air from your lungs—again.  Lightning bolts of worry flicker up your spine as you try to deduce what state he’s in.  The only other time you’ve ever seen him even _somewhat_ this detached was when he had been in the midst of those flashbacks. 

 

Ethan lets out another low groan as he tries to roll over in the mess of splintered wood.  The sound draws James’ attention and he turns his ruthless gaze to Ethan.  _Oh god_ … You remind yourself once again that this isn’t really him, and that you need to approach the situation delicately.

 

Sidestepping towards him again, attempting to obstruct the path between him and Ethan, you hold your hands out in front of you, doing your best to catch James’ eye.  “Hey, look at me,” you coo, hoping to get him to calm down enough to snap out of whatever fugue he’s in. 

 

After a few moments, his gaze focuses on you, though you can tell he probably isn’t really seeing you.  “There you go, there you are.”  You allow a small smile to grace your lips, in what you hope is an encouraging gesture.  “You’re alright, okay?  You’re safe,” you murmur, and it’s like something in him breaks.

 

His whole body starts trembling and it’s like a tsunami of expression floods into his face, coming wave after wave.  His eyes light up, first with confusion, then what looks like panic, and then guilt and regret.  You watch his shoulders tense and twitch as his fight-or-flight instincts start battling for control.  His eyes are wide as they flicker between you, standing in front of him with your hands out, and Ethan, crumpled on the floor, fading in and out of consciousness.

 

“James, hey, talk to me.”

 

Though your voice is gentle, he jumps as if you’d screamed at him.  His mouth is opening and closing like he’s forgotten how to speak.  You move a step forward, concern flooding your veins at how genuinely terrified James looks like this.  This six-foot-something man trembling and hyperventilating, trying to curl in on himself, sweat glistening on his brow, shocked and rueful.

 

Shaking his head, he lurches back a step.  His legs are shaky beneath him and you watch as he damn near trips over his own feet.  You follow after him, afraid he still isn’t completely there, that he might end up hurting himself.

 

“Derzhis' podal'she.  YA ne khochu prichinyat' tebe bol'.”

 

His voice cracks and you’re hit with a wall of dread.  Unable to understand him, you just move closer, hoping something in his body language will translate whatever he just said.  Your blood turns to ice as you watch him stumble away, tripping over the ruins of your front door and careening out of sight towards his apartment.

 

You stand frozen in place, confusion, shock, and general _what the hell_ keeping you rooted in the spot.  Overwhelmed with everything that’s happened in the past hour, you sway on your feet, head swimming.

 

_James… saved me._

 

You’d been unable to process it at the time, but you realize that he decimated your front door so that he could stop Ethan from harming you.  _He must have heard us._   _Wait… That means he probably always hears us._   A chill runs up your spine at the idea of James having heard all of the terrible things that Ethan’s said and done to you.  You know he’s known since he’s met you that you were being abused but knowing and hearing are such different things.  _Christ_.  You shudder.

 

That doesn’t explain the state James was in though.  Why did he have that weird disconnect?  It was like he didn’t know who he was or where he was.  You think back to the night of the flashbacks, the only other time you could recall him being like that.  _What had we been talking about?_

 

_“I’m not a good man.  I’ve hurt people,” his voice is shaky and it feels like he’s an animal about to bolt. “That arm… is a weapon. It was made to kill.” The last word tumbles out like water from an overflowing glass._

 

His arm.  It had triggered him to revert back to whatever he had gone through.  But that didn’t make sense, because he was already in that weird abstraction when he had shown up at your door.  Something must have triggered him before he came over?  _I need to talk to him._

 

Your pondering is interrupted when you hear Ethan groan and curse under his breath behind you.  Startled, you realize that you either have to stay here and talk to him about what just happened—as well as what occurred before James kicked in your door—or you can follow after your protector.

 

Without hesitating, you snatch up your purse and keys and sprint after James.

 

***

 

He’s shaking.  He can’t stop fucking shaking.

 

Bucky’s standing in his bathroom, covered in sweat, hyperventilating and doing everything in his power to keep himself from breaking down.  His grip on the glossy porcelain of his sink has the knuckles of his flesh hand turning white and the gears of his metal hand groaning under the strain.  His head is dropped beneath his shoulders and he’s squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that it’s starting to make his ears roar.

 

_I could have killed him._

 

The second Buck had made it back into the safety of his apartment, he’d ripped off his red Henley and run to his bathroom, on the verge of vomiting his guts up.  His skin was hot to the touch and when he’d caught his reflection in the mirror, he saw that his neck and chest were flushed, blotchy red patches covering him.

 

He had barely recognized himself.

 

His wide, fearful eyes, full of some bizarre mania.  His messy hair, sticking to his sweaty forehead.  His wet cheeks, tear streaked and pale.  He didn’t know who that man was.  He abhorred that you had seen that man.

 

The way you had looked at him with such raw fear in your eyes had broken something deep in him; if he thought he still had a heart, he’d say it was that.  Your voice had been trembling so much he thought you would choke on your own words.

 

_“James, you’re scaring me.”_

 

Bucky had heard you but the Soldier had responded.  Buck was in there, he could hear you, he could see you, he’d felt your hand on his goddamned arm, but it was like he was no longer in control.  The second he got ahold of himself again, when he’d finally buried the Soldier again, when you’d told him that it was alright, he was safe—he’d bolted.  He had to get out of there before he lost it again, before he struck out, before he hurt you.

 

_I could have killed her._

 

As soon as the thought tickles at his brain, Buck feels a wave of nausea overtake him, suddenly unable to stand.  Collapsing to the floor, he curls in on himself, relishing the relief that the cold tile brings to his feverish skin.  He’s shivering but sweltering, exhausted but frenetic.  His body’s overwrought and on edge, but all he can do is lay there. 

 

He can’t bring himself to go on defense when there’s knocking at his door, when he hears the sound of the door opening and closing, nor when he hears footsteps.  He barely even registers that you’re calling his name until you’re right in the hallway outside of the bathroom.  He merely flinches when you swipe his hair out of his sweaty face and lean down, worriedly looking into his eyes.

 

“James, sweetie, talk to me,” your voice is crackly and he notices that you’re crying.  _Why is she crying?_   “I’m really freaking out right now, do something to let me know you’re okay.”  You’re worried about him?  _Why in the hell is she worried about me?_

 

For some reason his peripheral vision is faltering and hazy, fizzling around the edges.  He feels himself start to shake, and suddenly it's like his whole body is just dissolving into convulsions.  Even his heart is stuttering, like it's not sure what to do.

 

“James?  James?!  Do I need to call an ambulance?”  Grunting, he shakes his head in the negative, determined to avoid interacting with any kind of doctors.  “Th-then what?  Tell me what to do, p-please,” you’re full on sobbing at this point.  Bucky finds himself more concerned with comforting you than he is about whatever the fuck his body’s doing right now.  Reaching out his spasming flesh hand, he gently grips your wrist.

 

A mask of confusion falls over your face but you don’t fight against him or even hesitate.  He slowly brings your hand to rest on his face, and at this, your tears seem to come even faster.  _Please don't cry,_ he thinks.  The sight of you sobbing the way you are physically hurts him.  When he feels you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, he melts into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed.

 

“Just stay,” he grits out through clenched teeth, trying his best to control his shaking.  “Please.”  Buck wants to cringe at how breathy and broken his words come out.  He doesn’t see you nod, but he feels your body jerk a bit and hears your hum of agreeance. 

 

Bucky savors the feel of your hand cupping his jaw, your thumb running over his cheek.  He focuses on the pressure of your other hand pressing flat against his chest, the sensation of his racing heart thrumming just beneath your fingertips.

 

And he lets himself fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proch’ s dorogi > Get out of my way.
> 
> Derzhis' podal'she. YA ne khochu prichinyat' tebe bol'. > Stay away from me. I don't want to hurt you.


	14. Get Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of seeing James' more complex side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Bucky's new Wakandan arm is all the rage but I personally stan the silver with the Soviet star also I'm writing this with the up-all-night-to-get-Bucky era mindset anyways so it barely matters but I thought I'd point it out before someone else did

Your teeth are chattering and your ass is effectively numb, but you can’t find the energy to care as you busy yourself with running your fingers through James’ tangled hair.  It doesn’t exactly hurt that he seems to be running a fever, so you do what you can to leech his warmth.

 

At some point after you’d essentially broken into James’ house and found him damn near catatonic on his bathroom floor, you’d taken off your flimsy cardigan, throwing it over his bare shoulders and pulling his upper body to lay across your lap.  You hadn’t been keeping track of the time, but it had felt like hours before his breathing had finally evened out and he’d stopped shaking like a wet chihuahua. Left with nothing to do but listen to the sound of his breathing and overthink, you’d done just that.

 

You’re in the middle of your third mental draft of the thank you speech you’re preparing for him when he wakes up.  You barely even hear him, but his hoarse voice bounces off the tiles of his bathroom.

 

“I’m sorry.”  The crack in his voice breaks your heart and you start shaking your head, apparently to his dismay.  “Y/N—” he starts, a sigh on his lips, but you cut him off.

 

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”  You croon, tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear.  His bright eyes find yours, and for a moment, you see a trace of what you saw right before he’d sprinted out of your living room.  That weird passing of fight-or-flight flashing behind his eyes; it’s like you can _see_ him planning out his escape.  Your breath catches in your throat as you feel a wave of panic run through you at the prospect of him leaving or telling you to leave.

 

“James, I j-just,” you squeak out, your throat still ruined from Ethan’s ministrations.  Judging by the pained expression on James’ face, he hears it too.

 

Gently pushing himself up, James turns to look at you, a slight blush rising to his face when he realizes the position the two of you had been in for the past god-knows-how-long.  Delicately, he unwraps your cardigan from himself, giving you a shy smile of thanks before draping it around your own shoulders. You find yourself weakly mirroring his smile, that is, until his eyes dart to your neck and his face falls.

 

“Are you…” James’ words fade out as if he’s too scared to even voice his concerns.

 

Clearing his throat, he stands, holding out a hand to help you up as well.  You accept, allowing him to pull you up. Once standing, you find yourself at eye level with his bare chest and you have to fight the urge to blush and get flustered.

 

When you notice that James hasn’t moved, you nervously flick your eyes up to his only to be met with a silvery blue wall of concern.  You have to shove down the instinct to read it as pity; you know him better than that. Regardless, it isn’t the first time you’ve been faced with that look of his—and it definitely won’t be the last—but for some reason, in the current situation, it irks you.  Averting your eyes, you bring your gaze back to his chest, a stubborn furrow in your brow.

 

Your attention slowly drifts over to his left shoulder, zeroing in on where flesh meets metal.  You feel your jaw drop open and your eyes widen. The seam of his leaden arm and pale skin is sealed with thick pink scars, puckered and angry.  It looks as if it goes all the way around, over his back and down under his armpit, along with some that stretch out from the metal and creep over his chest.  

 

You reach up your hand slowly, in too much of a daze to notice James’ breath hitching, or the slight flinch his body takes on when you come into contact with the scarring.  Your fingertips dance over the main ring of raised tissue, directly at the joining point of his mechanical appendage and his body. Tracing over the slightly lighter discoloration radiating out from the shoulder, stretching towards the middle of his chest, you inhale shakily and fight down a shudder.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

You ask it so quietly, so hollowly, that you aren’t even sure he’s heard you.  If it weren’t for the ragged gasp you hear from the man, you wouldn’t have been any the wiser.  You feel his gaze burning into you, but you remain staring at his shoulder; after a beat passes, you cave and your eyes flicker up to his.

 

He’s regarding you with the strangest expression on his face, but whatever look he’s giving you is rendering him unreadable.  All you see is the sparkle of his baby blues staring back at you. For a few breaths it feels like the two of you are just floating, no longer in his cramped bathroom in his dark apartment.  You can’t help but think back on the rocking sensation you’d been lost in when Ethan had you fading in and out of consciousness, the halcyon you’d felt at the prospect of freedom.

 

Now, staring into the depths of James’ azure eyes, you feel that same thing.  Something about the way he's looking back at you gives you that steady feeling of peace, the comfort of being carried across waves.  The weight of the silence settled around you is lifted when James breathes out his reply at last.

 

“No,” it comes out raspy.  James’ eyes flit down to your neck and he slowly brings up his flesh hand, resting his palm against your collarbone.  He delicately brushes his thumb over the curve of your throat, where you can assume it’s red, if not already purpled, on account of Ethan’s none too kind treatment of you.  You have to stifle the urge to cry out when James’ touch sends a stinging spark all the way across your neck and jaw region. His eyes return the question silently. _Does it hurt?_

 

“No,” you lie.  By the look on his face, you can tell he sees through it and you sigh.  As the breath leaves you, it tingles through your throat and you can’t help but grimace.  Shaking your head, defeated, you finally break eye contact. A surge of shame swells up in your chest and there’s that all too familiar feeling of tears prickling at the backs of your eyes.  “I’m so sorry, James,” you blubber, voice wavering.

 

The hand he’d been resting against your clavicle disappears, only to return, now gently pinching your chin and directing your face back up to his.  Brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, he’s the perfect picture of confusion.

 

“What are you sorry for?”  The tone of his voice is almost sharp, like he knows that whatever you’re about to say is bound to be bullshit.

 

“I-I triggered you and caused you to go into some—some kind of _blackout_ and have a f-fucking _breakdown!_  I can’t even imagine how terrible that must have been and it’s my fault! _God_ I’m so sorry.”  It all comes out in a rush and suddenly you’re propelling yourself back and away from James, hiding your face with your hands and shattering whatever atmosphere there was between you two.

 

He reels back like he’s been struck, shaking his head in utter disbelief.  “Y/N,” he whispers, still shaking his head. It’s like you don’t even hear him; you move as far away from him as the walls of the bathroom will allow and you turn to duck your head and hide behind your hair, choking down a whimper.

 

“Doll, stop, you’re gonna worry yourself sick.”  Moving towards you, he gently takes hold of your wrists and pulls your hands away from your face, bending at the waist so that he can directly make eye contact again.  “Y/N, listen to me,” he murmurs, voice firm but soft. He’s silent until you finally look back up at him again, your lower lip wobbling as you fight back tears.  

 

“Y/N, doll, trust me when I say that none of what’s happened today was your fault, y’hear me?”  He’s practically whispering but his words carry over with such an intensity that it feels like he’s shouting.  You’re too upset to respond, so he continues.

 

“What you saw today that-that wasn’t me.  That guy…” He trails off, suddenly unable to meet your eyes.  “He’s the guy that the people who made _this—_ ” he gestures to the crimson star emblazoned on his shoulder “—wanted me to be.”  His voice isn’t much more than a whisper when he continues.  “They wanted a k… a k-killer and so they made one. The guy that kicked down your door and tried to—” he cuts himself off, face going pale.  Every muscle in James’ body goes taut as he inhales shakily and gulps.

 

“Did I kill him?”  

 

The question is hoarse and broken.  His wide eyes start to water and you watch as his lashes twitch—he’s overwhelmed again.  

 

You realize in that moment that in your rush to check on James and make sure that he was okay, you didn’t even bother to check Ethan for a pulse before dashing out of your apartment.   _I definitely recall him groaning or something_ , you think dumbly.

 

James starts to panic at your lack of response and he stumbles away from you, falling back against the sink.  He looks as if he’s about to collapse and both of his hands shoot to the counter, flesh hand white-knuckling it and his metal hand’s gears whirring at the exertion.   _No, no, no_.  You shoot forward, laying a hand on top of his flesh hand and resting the other against the side of his neck.

 

“James, no!   _No_ , he’s fine, he’s alive,” you speak quickly, your voice an octave higher than normal.  Your heart’s beating out a double dutch hop in your chest and you feel your heart clench at the look of udder trepidation on his face.  “James, it’s okay, he’s fine,” you reiterate.

 

Your words seem to have an effect on him, and he nods, slowing his breathing, but the tenseness doesn’t leave his body.  Silence falls over the two of you again as you remain in place, gently running your thumb across his jaw. Suddenly, it dawns on you that with all of the chaos that came with him waking up, you never did the one thing you so desperately needed to.

 

“James, I never… I never said thank you.”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

His eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open in shock and befuddlement.  You almost want to laugh at how absurd the situation feels.

 

“He might’ve, uh,” you hesitate, eyes dropping to the hollow of James throat when you think back on what had happened.  You replay the scene in your mind, reminded of how _serious_ it had been when Ethan had his hands wrapped around your neck, how real it had been this time.  You bring your eyes back up to James’, chest flooding with warmth when your gazes connect.

 

“He was gonna kill me, James.  If you hadn’t come when you had, I-I…”  The rest of your words die on your lips.  “Thank you,” you add softly.

 

James’ eyes soften instantly when he hears the tremble in your voice.  He brings his flesh hand up to cup your cheek, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone and swiping away a tear you’d not even realized you let fall.

 

“I’ve got you, doll,” he avows.  

 

You shudder, the events of the day weighing you down and you practically collapse against him, burying your face in his bare chest and hugging him tightly.  James tucks your head under his chin and hugs you back, his metal arm around your waist and his flesh hand smoothing over your hair.

 

 _I’ve never felt this safe_ , a small voice in the back of your head pipes up.

 

“I’ve got you.”

 

***

 

“What’ll it be for you two?”

 

After more emotional distress and guilt from both parties, you and James tiredly decided to leave the building and head to the 24/7 diner you’d taken him to earlier on in your friendship.  It was nearly two in the morning, and neither of you were really in the mood to eat, but you’d suggested it, hoping that maybe the familiar ambiance would help ease both of your minds.

 

You pipe up before James gets the chance to order.

 

“He’ll take a cheese omelet with a side of bacon,” you announce, a small smile on your lips.  When you glance back at James you see that he’s flashing that little smirk of his. “Oh! And a black coffee, please,” you add on.  Leaning back in the booth, you cross your arms over your chest and giggle at James’ thoughtful expression.

 

“And she’ll have…” he squints at you, a playful twinkle in his eyes.  “Blueberry pancakes and a glass of orange juice.” You scrunch your nose and nod, handing your menu to the entertained waitress, who scribbles down your order and collects the laminated sheets from both of you.

 

“Y’all are cute.”  At that you feel a blush rise on your face.  “Your drinks’ll be out in a sec,” she announces before strolling over behind the bar to start prepping your meals.

 

You and James settle into a comfortable silence, you peering through the cloudy windows of the diner, and him watching you.

 

You mindlessly fidget with the fringe along the trimming of the plaid scarf James had let you borrow to cover up your, _ahem_ , neck situation.  A warm hand comes to rest atop yours, ceasing your twirling of the yarn strings.  You look over at James, a curious look on your face. When you see that familiar little crease between his brows, you frown, knowing he wants to talk about something serious.

 

“Y/N... do you, uh, have any idea what you’re gonna do?”

 

You can hear how reluctant he is to bring this up, and you appreciate that he at least knows how weird of a position you’re in.  Sighing, you sit up straight and turn your hand over so you can run your fingertips over the palm of his hand. Distracting yourself with studying the lines of his palm, you wait until the waitress comes back with your drinks, offering a small ‘thank you’ before finally looking back up to meet James’ gaze.

 

“I have a friend from work that I can call…” you trail off, dreading calling Rosalie.  She’s not really the ‘I told you so’ type, but you know that whatever conversation she’d force you to have about it, it wouldn’t exactly be brief.  “She’s been offering me her guest room ever since her roommate left, so I know she won’t mind me staying with her until I figure out, well, _y’know._ ”

 

James nods, eyes wide with empathy.  You see something akin to disappointment cross his features, but he must catch himself slipping, because after a moment, it’s gone.

 

“I’m glad you’re getting out of there, doll, I really am.”  He squeezes your hand and you can’t help the watery smile you feel coming to your face.  Sniffling, you squeeze your eyes shut and sigh, shooting him a self-deprecating smile.

 

“Don’t get sappy on me, _Mister_.  I’ll still be around.  Plus, now you have an excuse to come visit me at work!”

 

That seems to bring a more genuine smile to his face, and you finally see the sparkle come back to his eyes as he chuckles at your excitement.

 

“Sounds perfect, Y/N.”

 

Your meals arrive, and with that, the two of you tuck in, weights lifted off of both of your shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to see if you all had any predictions for what's coming next because I may or may not have something wicked in the works ;~)
> 
> This chapter kinda flowed out while I was listening to _Get Home_ by Bastille and _Carry on Wayward Son_ by Kansas.


	15. Run Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your boyfriend tried to kill you, James tried to kill him, and now you’re left with no chance of getting your security deposit back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was really wholesome for me because I got to just think about Bucky being protective and loving the entire time ^^
> 
> (Chapter title from _Run Wild_ by Jon Bellion)

By the time you and James finish your meals and make your way back to your apartment complex, it’s verging on half past four, and the exhaustion and stress of the day is settling itself deep into your bones.

 

The silence between the two of you on the walk is heavy—comfortable, but heavy nonetheless.  You can practically feel James thinking, wanting to say something but holding himself back. You decide to allow him to work towards it on his own, deeming it best to let him voice whatever he has to say at his own pace.

 

When he finally speaks up, you can just see into the main lobby of the complex.

 

“Are you gonna call your friend?”

 

At his words, you stop walking, and he does the same.  Glancing up at him, you catch sight of him nervously biting at his bottom lip.  The inconsistent lighting cast on his face from streetlights and passing headlights cause shadows to be thrown across his features.  The scattered illumination makes it look like his expression is fractured into stone. His stern expression does nothing to help the illusion.  You sigh.

 

“It’s late, plus she has a morning shift.  I should probably wait,” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip.  The small crinkle between James’ brows deepens, nearly causing you to heave another sigh.  Instead, you reach out and squeeze his flesh arm in what you hope is a reassuring gesture. “I’ll be fine for tonight.”

 

James doesn’t respond, just casts a worried glance towards your building.

 

“Doll, he’s probably still up there.”

 

The thought of it makes your stomach flip flop, and you can’t help but let out an anxious nose akin to a groan.  You hadn’t even considered that. In all honesty, Ethan had barely crossed your mind since you and James left his apartment.

 

 _God, how am I gonna deal with this?  What if he calls the cops and gets James in trouble?  What if he’s even angrier next time? Will there even be a next time?  No, no, don’t dwell._  Shaking your head to try and clear it, you shrug jerkily and roll your lips.

 

“I… I guess I’ll deal with it, then.”

 

He shoves both of his hands into the pockets of his leather coat, ducking his head down and shaking it.  You hear him huff what sounds like a scoff. Watching as his hair falls around his face messily, you can’t help but think back on the way it fell in such a similar fashion when he’d… _well_.

 

After a moment, James brings his head back up, bright eyes finding yours, sparkling with something pained.  A quick shake of his head causes his hair to flop around and you sigh through your nose, already preparing for a disagreement.

 

“James…" your voice has taken on a warning tone, much like it did the last time you’d had a similar conversation not fifty feet from where the pair of you are currently stood.

 

“No.”

 

A beat.

 

“What?”

 

Another beat.

 

“I said no.”

 

You have to take a step back so you can look at James’ face better.  Searching for some sign in his eyes or throughout his features that he’s kidding, you’re shocked when you find nothing of the sort.  With his jaw set, shoulders square, and eyes earnest, James is the poster child for all that is serious.

 

“You’re staying with me.  I’m not leaving you in that apartment.”

 

“James, I…”  You can’t even find the words you’re looking for.  After a few seconds of spluttering in disbelief, you collect yourself.  “He might have _left_ for all we know,” you aren’t quite sure why you feel so determined to fight him on this, but when you see that sad goddamn look on his face, you blunder on, unable to keep an indignant whine from dripping into your tone.  “I get you’re worried or whatever the hell, but you c-can’t just uproot me—you don’t get to just _do_ that!”  Your voice is getting shrill and you can feel yourself melting into hysteria as a warm tear slips down your cheek.  “Y-you can’t— _I_ can’t!”  Your wide, frightened eyes meet his.

 

Before you can process it, James’ arms are around your trembling shoulders, pulling you into his chest.  You remain frozen, shaking and crying against him, unable to come up with any more words.

 

Your mind is going into overdrive, your thoughts darting around behind your eyes like sharks in a feeding frenzy.   _I can’t be without Ethan, I don’t know how_ , you want to say.   _I’m afraid of life without him_ .  You want to explain yourself, but the lump in your throat prevents you from doing so.   _I can’t, I can’t._

 

You know in your heart of hearts that your fear is what’s making you so argumentative with James, just as much as you know that he’s right.  You shouldn’t be in that apartment, left with Ethan or even alone. You _know_ , you get it, you’re not a fucking idiot, but it just terrifies you to even consider that the last six years of your life are about to be overwhelmed by a single day’s happenings.

 

The reality of the events of the last 24 hours hits you _hard_ as you stand there, shivering in James’ arms.  Just the day before, he had accosted you about your situation, urging you to do something about it, vowing to help you out himself.  You think back on his words, on the waver in his voice, the devastating amount of empathy.

 

_“This ain’t pity alright?  I know what it’s like to be hurt, and not be able to see a way out okay?  It sucks and it’s hard to be objective about how you’re not being treated right, okay?  I refuse to let you live that.”_

 

Hell, Rosalie had even cornered you at work and all but given you a rap across the knuckles over it.  She was basically a broken record by now, reminding you day in and day out that you deserved better.

 

_“You’re smart, honey.  Don’t let yourself do this longer than you already have.”_

 

Your mind wanders to the decision you’d come to that day at work, the surety you’d had when you’d gotten home, ready to give Ethan an earful.  How brave you’d felt.

 

How caught off guard you’d been when he’d greeted you like he used to, years ago.  How nostalgia had taken your footing, had you unsure of yourself, ready to cower like always.  But you hadn’t, you’d gone to stand your ground, to use the voice he’d stolen from you all those months ago.

 

You feel your heart rate pick up when you think back on how quickly the earth had crumbled out from under your feet when he’d snapped.  You’d reverted back to your usual temperament, submissive and terrified. You’d all but fucking kowtowed, absorbing all of the cruel words he’d thrown at you, like it was part of your morning routine—it might as well have been, at this point.

 

You choke up when the hand-shaped bruises around your throat start to throb at the mere thought of what he had done to you.  Your own voice echoes around in your head, broken and terrified, begging him to stop. He had been barbarous, pinning you to the scratchy carpet, squeezing your consciousness out of you like you were nothing but a damned juice pouch.

 

_He tried to kill me._

 

Ice flood your veins when your mind finally grasps it.  The tears come back, full force, wracking your body with jostling sobs and heaves.  James stays silent, but does what he can to pull you even further into him as you clutch at his shirt with shaky hands.

 

“He was gonna _k-kill_ me.”  The jaggedness of your own voice sends a chill down your spine.

 

James doesn’t say anything, just shushes you and runs his flesh hand down your hair.  When a particularly chilling breeze rushes past you—and through your bones, it seems—you remember that you’re literally stood sobbing in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

Doing your best to regain your bearings, you choke down the rest of your tears and sniffle, stepping away from James and shoving the heels of your palms into your eyes.  With a few final hiccups, you pull yourself together and sigh. Opening your eyes, you’re met with two worried pools of baby blues.

 

“Let’s get you upstairs, huh?”

 

His tone is painfully gentle, toeing the line between talking to someone who’s upset and talking to a child, but you find yourself unbothered.  Nodding numbly, you turn to walk the direction you’d both been heading before emotional crisis struck.

 

The two of you make it into the building and your struck with a wave of warmth when you note just how familiar it feels to watch James press the up button; you feel almost at home when he steps aside and bows his head to let you step into the elevator car first.

 

Once inside, there’s a fleeting tingle in your toes when you see that James is no longer in his usual position right in front of the elevator doors.  He’s closer, at the halfway point between you and the doors. If you were to extend your arm, you would be able to brush your fingertips over his shoulder blade.   _He’s guarding me,_ you think fondly.  The corner of your mouth ticks up briefly at the sentiment.

 

The smile falls immediately when the doors open up to the third floor and you catch sight of your apartment door.  

 

Well… door _way._

 

The splinters of what was formerly your front door still lay a mess all around the threshold, and you feel nausea surge up in you as your brain starts to go into panic mode.  James must notice this, as he turns to you immediately. He ducks his head down so he can make eye contact and brings his flesh hand up to settle on your cheek in the soothing gesture you’ve both come to appreciate.

 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, attempting to bring your focus to him.  Your eyes are glassy as they flit around his face. “You’re safe, okay?”  You nod jerkily and do your best to regulate your breathing—you didn’t even realize you’d started hyperventilating.   _How many panic attacks can I have in one goddamn day?_

 

Once you calm yourself somewhat, James tenderly steers you out of the elevator and into the hallway, bringing you to a stop against the wall between your apartments.  Releasing you, he steps away and removes his jacket, flipping it around and settling it over your shoulders.

 

He’s still holding onto the lapels of his coat, giving it a small tug to keep your attention.  He moves closer once again, dipping his head again to catch your eye.

 

“I’ve got you, remember?”

 

You can’t help the shuddering inhale as you nod.  It feels like your face is now morphed into a constant expression of fear, but you allow a small grateful smile to creep across your lips.

 

“What are you gonna do?”  You can tell by the determined set of his shoulders and the glint in his eyes that he’s thinking about something.  His masseter muscle ticks as he glances towards your door.

 

“I’m gonna sweep the apartment.  If he’s gone, you can pack a bag.  If he’s not…” He trails off and you have to fight down the urge to shudder.  Your anxiety must show on your face because James brings a hand up to sweep a strand of your hair behind you ear.  “I’ll deal with it,” he all but whispers.

 

You nod, not willing to try and convince him otherwise.

 

When he moves away from you to head towards your apartment, your clammy hand shoots out, desperately gripping his.

 

“Be careful.”

 

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

 

“I will.”

 

With that, James disappears around the corner and into the depths of your apartment.  You strain your ears, attempting to at least hear the scuffle of his feet, but when you all you’re met with is silence, you slump against the wall.  Anxiety grips at your gut and you distract yourself by pulling James’ coat closer around you.

 

Snuggling into the fabric—still warm with residual heat from his furnace of a body—you inhale deeply.  The jacket smells just like him: earthy and crisp, like autumn leaves, with a hint of something spicy. The scent is so unique and just purely him that it effectively relieves some of the tension in your chest.

 

After a few more harrowing minutes of you shuffling in place and petting the leather of his jacket, James finally emerges from your apartment.  The sight of him has your heart leaping and your legs carrying you over to him.

 

“Good?”

 

“Good,” he assures.  You heave a sigh of relief, moving in and wrapping your arms around his lithe waste, resting your forehead against his sternum.

 

“Thank you, James.”

 

“I told you, doll.  I’ve got you.” Nodding as much as you can with your head against his chest, you hum in agreeance.  “Let’s pack you that bag and then we’ll see about getting you settled with me, yeah?”

 

 _We_.

 

Something about the way that that sounds coming from him makes something in your chest flutter.  You don’t think you can put into words the amount of gratitude you feel towards James, so you settle with getting up on your tiptoes and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.  The tingly sensation of his scruff brushing against your lips isn’t lost on you.

 

“Alright.”

 

You make your way into the trashed apartment, a grimace on your face.   _There goes my security deposit._ Pausing in the entryway, you glance to the kitchen, seeing two sad plates of fettuccini alfredo sitting on the counter.  Peeking towards the corner closest to the hall, you see a you-sized dent in the cabinets along the floor, adjacent to the mess made when Ethan decided to throw every damned seasoning in the house at you.

 

Sighing you shake your head and move towards the living room, the area that seemed to take the brunt of Ethan’s blows.  You’re greeted with yet another large indent in the wall, suspiciously the same size and shape as you. Along the floor are a few picture frames, surrounded by the shattered glass of their panes.

 

Stooping low, you pick up the one closest to your feet; it’s a black and white photograph of you and Ethan from your second anniversary.  It’s a selfie he took of the two of you together on your sunset walk through the park. He’s smiling at the camera, a boyish grin taking up his whole face, eyes nothing more than slits.  You’re gazing up at him, chin resting on his shoulder, a look of genuine and unadulterated adoration in your eyes. You scoff.

 

“What fuckin’ bullshit,” you mutter, tossing the frame back into the pile with its friends.

 

Turning with a huff, you move past the absolute mess of a coffee table, and make your way down the hallway to your bedroom.  Without allowing yourself any time to think about all of the nostalgia trying to drag you under, you snatch a duffel bag from the back of your closet.  You begin yanking open drawers and unceremoniously shoving handfuls of clothing in, trying your hardest not to let any tears fall.

 

Soft footsteps stop outside the bedroom door, and you risk a glance, finding James standing tensely, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he silently inspects the shared room.  He takes in all of the dents and impressions in the walls, shaking his head slowly.

 

There’s not much light in the room aside from what’s coming in from the hallway, but you can see the anger flashing behind his eyes.  He clenches his jaw and you see the vein right next to his temple throb. Redirecting your attention back to packing, you do your best to ignore the agitated whirring of his metal arm.

 

“How… how long?”

 

You can’t hold back the tired sigh when you drop your bag and press the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to force your tears back into your head.

 

“It only got bad two years ago,” you mumble.

 

You hear him inhale sharply, but you refuse to turn around.

 

“Two years?”

 

You shrug noncommittally, sniffling and snatching the bag back up before resuming your pace, shoving whatever looks like yours into it.  Once you feel like you’ve gotten just about everything, you duck through the doorway to the bathroom. Sweeping all of the stuff from your side of the sink into the duffel, you nod tersely to yourself.

 

_This is it._

 

You’ve been dreaming of this day for months now.  You can already hear Rosie’s squeal of pride, telling you she’s glad you finally did it.  You haven’t done that much yet, but this is the first step you’ve taken towards no longer being… whatever he made you into.  A battered, submissive shell of a woman with a hopeless heart. You’re not her anymore.

 

Despite the fact that you know this is what’s best, what’s right, you can’t help the gross surge of homesickness welling up in your gut, closing up your throat, and stinging at the backs of your eyes.  This isn’t a home, it never was, but this was… well it was all you had. Even if it sucked and hurt, it was all you knew. Leaving this is probably the most daunting thing you’ve ever done and that you’ll ever do.   _I can’t afford to be scared,_ you think morosely

 

With one more weary glance around the room to ensure that you didn’t miss anything, you make your way out of the bathroom and down the hall to where James is standing in your living room.  He’s got his back to you, arms crossed edgily over his chest. _On the defense_ , you note.  It lends a sense of comfort to you, the knowledge that he’s always so ready to protect you.

 

Upon hearing you shuffle back into the room, he turns, a small sympathetic smile on his face.  You can’t help but mirror it. James extends his hand, holding it out to you, and you take it gratefully, giving it a squeeze.

 

“Ready?”

 

It’s just one word, but the concern in his cerulean eyes communicates the weight of the question.   _Are you ready to start this new chapter? Are you ready to trust him? Are you ready to take the reins of your own life?_  Though the idea of all of those things coming to be reality terrifies you, you know your answer.

 

“Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you all think! I hope you liked it <3


	16. You Can Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s relapse, as well as the overall craziness of the day, has an ailing effect on his already rocky mental stability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this chapter is pretty intense but I feel like it's a really important look into Buckaroo's development :~) 
> 
> (Chapter title from _Get Well Soon_ by Ariana Grande)
> 
> ** Strong warning for a graphic violence. There's a lot of blood and gore and body horror so please be cautious if you're sensitive to that!

When Bucky startles awake from his nightmares, it isn’t dramatic.  There’s no yelling or flailing or scrambling for a gun or a knife. He doesn’t lunge at the throat of the person nearest him, and he doesn’t flip tables, somehow convinced he’s in the middle of a warzone.  Maybe he’s desensitized to the horrors of the psyche, or maybe he’s just too disciplined to lose control.

 

If anything, when Bucky wakes up from a nightmare, it’s kind of like being brought out of cryostasis.  His entire body will be numb, and he’ll unable to move, but he can feel his nerve endings singing as they thaw out.  His skin is always broken out in goosebumps and he’ll be shivering, like he’s fighting off a chill, but he’ll be too hot at the same time; sweat will stick to his upper lip and forehead, plastering his hair across the back of his neck.

 

Sometimes his heart will be racing, but only if he wakes up because he died in the dream.  Most of the time, it’s almost like his pulse isn’t even there, little more than a weak fluttering at the base of his throat.  Usually while he waits for his body to wake up, to “defrost”, as he likes to call it, he lets his mind run back through what happened in the dream, to better process it.  He finds that doing this before he can get up or get moving allows him to be more grounded once he has his movement once again; the lines between dream and reality aren’t quite as blurred.

 

Tonight, though, this entire routine is jilted.

 

The second his eyes snap open, he knows that he’s awake, that he’s no longer in the dream, but that doesn’t stop the panic that’s coiling through his gut.  Without allowing himself enough time to regain his bearings, he swings himself over the side of the couch and stands up on shaky legs. Swaying only slightly, Buck carries himself across his living room and down the hall to his bedroom, his heart in his throat the entire time.

 

_She’s fine, she’s safe, just checking._

 

He’s playing the words on repeat in his head until he finally makes it to the slightly agape bedroom door.  Pushing it open further, he pokes his head around the corner, squinting through the darkness and desperately trying to catch sight of your form.

 

Once his eyes land on your body, curled up tight in the center of his bed with the blankets pulled up all around your head as if you were swaddling yourself, Bucky finally releases the breath he didn’t even noticed he’d been holding.  He can hear your deep, even breaths, and for some reason the sound slows his heart rate back to what most would consider a healthy pace.

 

_Safe, she’s safe._

 

Exhaling shakily, Bucky ducks back through the door, pulling it back to its half-cracked position.  Leaning back against the wall of the hallway, he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and does his best to ignore the pins and needles attacking his arms and legs.  Jumping up from a nightmare the way he had was obviously not the best idea.

 

Buck slides down the wall until his butt hits the ground with a quiet thud.  Keeping his legs drawn up near his chest, he wraps his arms around his shins and lets his head loll forward until it’s resting against his knees.  He can’t stop _fucking_ shaking.  Cringing, he tenses when gets the same gross woozy feeling that he felt just the day before, when he’d been coming back down from his… _relapse_.

 

“She’s _fine_ ,” he hisses to himself, doing what he can to calm the stampede of _what ifs_ running amuck in his brain.  Straining his ears, he refocuses on the quiet sound of your breathing, letting the noise comfort him.  “She’s fine.”

 

Bucky’s not unaccustomed to nightmares, hell he’s spent the better part of the last century _living_ one.  This simple fact is what’s causing tonight’s reaction to throw him for a loop.  This dream was so similar to all of the others, it even started out as one of his recurring ones, but the twist at the end was so different.  That’s what’s got him so upset.

 

A shudder zips up his spine as he fights down the wave of nausea he feels start to rise up.  Squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky does what he can to remember.

 

***

 

It had been the pile nightmare, the one that haunts him the most.

 

It’s always him, all decked out in his full combat gear: tact pants, Kevlar vest, mask and goggles, with at least a dozen weapons strapped about his body.  An M4A1 Carbine in his metal hand, a 357 Derringer in his shoulder holster, one SIG-Sauer on each hip, a TEC-38 at his right thigh, a Glock 17 on his left, and a Skorpion strapped to his back; around his belt there was four compartments in which he held his knives, as well as various low explosives.  Then there is, of course, his switchblade in his right boot, tucked in at his ankle.  Always.

 

It starts with him on an assignment, one in which he’s tasked with skulking up behind a concrete building somewhere in Siberia, judging by the snow.  The cold bites at what little of his face is exposed and it just barely breaches his gear, nipping at him. The structure is huge, bare around all sides, no windows or doors aside from one large rolling shutter panel.  He’ll move towards the entryway, approaching at an angle. Flanking to the side with his gun poised, he pulls the chain with his cybernetic arm; the door rumbles open in one tug, and he moves in.

 

He always moves silently, like the ghost he was trained to be.  He’ll skim the perimeter of the structure, trying to take note of all entry and exit points, like he always does.  Quickly, he’ll realize that the building has no windows, and the only door is the one he came thr— _where’s the door?_

 

When he turns back towards the direction he came, suddenly all of the walls are smooth, and there’s no longer an exit.  Skeptical, assuming that his target is playing tricks on him, he will prepare himself, on guard. He’ll turn back towards the center of the room and _when did that mirror get there?_

 

A hulking shard of reflective glass hovers in the center of the room, and he steps closer.  He’ll catch sight of his reflection, and the spectacle will knock his breath away. Instead of a proper reflection, it’s an image of him in 1945.  His hair is cropped short and he’s wearing his Prussian blue Ike jacket, the same coat he was wearing when he fell from…

 

At this point in the dream, he’ll always end up stopping short, fumbling his rifle, abruptly hit with the realization that he isn’t the Winter Soldier, but that he’s Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.  Then why, he’ll question himself in a panic, is he wearing the Soldat’s gear, holding his weapons, and peering through his specs?

 

The moment the realization hits, the glass will shatter and Bucky will have to cover his face and head with his arm to keep from being slashed by the flying slivers.  When he lowers his arm, the nightmare truly begins.

 

In the same spot where the mirror was sitting is now a pile of bodies.  Well, calling them bodies wouldn’t be the most accurate description, seeing as they’re all alive—at least for now.  The people in the mass are bloodied, mangled, and disfigured, all seeming to be caught in different stages of dying.  The shock will hit Bucky first, but the recognition comes hot on its heels.

 

He knows these people.

 

First, he’ll recognize Jacques and Dum Dum, two of his fellow Howling Commandos.  Both of them have gunshot wounds to their heads, right between the eyes, execution style.  After that, his eyes will find Rebecca, his sister. Her dark hair is matted with blood, and it clings to her face, obstructing his view of her, but when she jerks her head towards him, he sees that her eyes and nose are bleeding.  

 

Next, he’ll see Stevie, so small and frail, looking like a broken doll. His arms and legs are pointing all of the wrong directions, and his neck isn’t sitting right on his shoulders. He’s writhing around, trapped beneath half a dozen other people, mouth opening and closing as he tries to yell out to Bucky.  Those clear blue eyes are wide and earnest, but he’s unable to make any noise.

 

When he sees that Bucky’s noticed him, Steve will wriggle around even more, and all of a sudden, the pile comes tilting, tipping towards Bucky.  He’ll be too stunned to move, to even try to step out of the way. It all happens in slow motion, with plenty of time for him to dodge, but for some reason his feet won’t budge, and he’s fastened to the spot, watching helplessly as the mountain of his misery topples down onto him.

 

He gets pinned down beneath the bodies, and he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t feel anything but the piercing sensation of dread stabbing at his lungs and throat. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, he’s stuck, can’t breathe…

 

This is usually the point in the dream where Bucky will wake up, expelled from the dreamscape and thrown back into his body.  There’s always those first few minutes of unanticipated consciousness that feel like his brain is moving through molasses, slow and ineffective.  Despite the unpleasantness of that state of mind, it always comes as a relief, a reprieve from the seemingly endless anxiety that the dream had given him.

 

Tonight however, the dream doesn’t stop.

 

For the first time, Bucky’s able to claw his way out from underneath all of the bodies, to liberate himself from the ambush of rancid corpses.  He has to kick dozens of desperate hands off of his ankles and swallow down the vomit rising up in his throat. Dragging himself across the ground on his hands and knees, he makes his way back towards the wall that the door has reappeared on.  He’s reaching up with his left hand to pull the chain, to free himself, to escape, but suddenly you’re there.

 

You stand before him, covered in blood, sobbing.  Your whole body is wracked with jolting shivers, and he notices that all you’re wearing is a plain shirt and shorts.  Part of him wants to ask you why you’re here, why you don’t have on a jacket, but the stronger part of him knows that this isn’t real.  This is just a dream, he _knows_ , but he also knows that the bruises encircling your throat are incredibly real, and that knowledge makes the panic that floods his veins even more violent.

 

Something else in Bucky’s brain registers the deviation from the usual narrative, but the terror he feels at seeing you like this snuffs the thought out like a candle.  He reaches his hand out to you, the metal one, too overwhelmed to do anything but. You recoil away from him as if he’s struck you, and let out a broken scream, tears coming faster.

 

“Why didn’t you _save me_ , James?  He _killed_ me!”

 

Bucky had never been able to speak in dreams like these before, but for some reason, the new scenario gifts him with his voice.

 

“No, no, no.”  His brain short circuits.   _I saved her, didn’t I?_  “No!  Doll, I got to you, I _stopped_ him,” he cries out, voice breaking.  He feels himself start to cry as well, and it’s like his whole body’s been doused in ice water.  He can’t stop shaking as he reaches out towards you again, trying to touch you, to feel that you’re real.  All you do is shrink back away from him, face contorting in disgust.

 

“Then why am I _dead?”_  Your words blur into each other and distort into what can only be described as a manic shriek.  Bucky has no choice but to forlornly watch with wide eyes as you collapse to your knees, clutching at your throat and gasping. _Choking, she’s choking._

 

Mustering up all of his willpower, Bucky does his best to get his feet under him and stumble towards you.  It feels like his ribs are collapsing in on themselves; he’s out of breath, he’s exhausted, his muscles are fatigued, but all he can focus on is you, getting to you.  It’s like he’s been running for years, and then he realizes that the room is stretching out at the same pace that he’s running in. He can’t reach you, can’t get to you, can’t save you—

 

And then he wakes up.

 

***

 

Letting out a stifled whimper, Bucky flinches and swipes his flesh fingers across his cheek, brushing away the tears that had fallen.  Nightmares are practically his default setting, he shouldn't be this shaken up, but this one is getting to him in a way that he didn’t think possible anymore.  This is uncharted territory, and to be honest it’s freaking him out a little.

 

Standing up and shaking out his numb legs, Buck steps back towards his bedroom door.  Nudging it open just enough to fit through, he squeezes into the room and moves to stand near the foot of the bed.  He leans his head back until it thumps against the wall, but keeps his eyes trained on you, focusing on the rise and fall of your side. If he strains enough, he can hear your heartbeat, gentle and steady.  The consistency of it soothes him.

 

Bucky stays like that for admittedly longer than socially acceptable—as if watching someone sleep for any amount of time is appropriate—and he’s only broken from his stupor when you shift, rolling over and mumbling something indiscernible in your sleep.  The movement pushes the blankets down from where you’d had them tucked under your chin, leaving your back and arms exposed to the cold.

 

At first, he doesn’t do anything, just stays where he is.  The rational part of his brain is telling him to leave, so he doesn’t end up standing there when you wake up and have to explain why he was watching you in the first place.  

 

He’s already halfway turned around to leave, but then he sees you shiver and something in his chest tugs him towards your sleeping form. It’s like he’s not in control of his body, as if he’s watching himself from above, when his flesh arm reaches out and pulls the blanket back up over your shoulder.

 

He watches, mesmerized, as you snuggle down further beneath the edge of the blanket, hiding half of your face behind it.  Your fingers brush his when you clutch the fabric and pull it closer to yourself and the contact sends a spark through him.  A snapshot of the way you looked in his dream, covered in blood and choking, flashes behind his eyes and he gasps quietly, stumbling half a step back.

 

_No, she’s safe.  She’s right there, she’s safe._

 

With a steadying breath, Bucky strides back over toward the bedroom door, pausing once more to take in the sight of you.  He’s employing each and every brain cell to committing the scene to memory so he can lock it away whenever he needs a dose of sunshine.

 

You have the smallest of smiles on your face, and it nearly takes Buck’s breath away.  He’s never seen you so utterly tranquil, and he can only imagine how incredible it would be to see you like this all the time.  He wishes he could draw so he could sketch this and frame it, to look back on and treasure. If nothing else, he’ll fill a page of his journal with words for emotions that this moment is making him feel.

 

Bucky slinks back through the door, and before pulling it all the way closed, he allows himself one final look at you.  With a fond smile gracing his features, he nods determinedly, something new and warm bubbling up in his chest.

 

“I’m gonna keep you safe, doll.  I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you all liked this chapter! Lmk what y'all thought and feel free to talk to me on my tumblr if you like [@lovebiotes](http://lovebiotes.tumblr.com/)


	17. Gold Plated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma keep it real with you chief, this chapter got away from me. I didn't plan it out in advance and the holidays threw me off schedule (aka why I'm uploading so late, sorry) and I... this happened.
> 
> (Chapter title from _Last of the Real Ones_ by Fall Out Boy)

You wake up slowly, floating up from the depths of sleep little by little.  It must have been months since you’ve slept so soundly, and it makes waking up feel like absolute torture.  Without opening your eyes, you push yourself into a sitting position and move to swing your legs over the side of the couch— _this isn’t my couch._

 

Your eyes crack open, and you frown, looking around the room you’re in.  This isn’t your bedroom… _oh, right._  You’re in James apartment, in his bed.  Your cheeks flush as you remember everything that had happened the day before—the chaos and the come down from it all. 

 

You shake your head quickly, attempting to clear the cluttered thoughts from your already sleep-fuzzy mind, and scoot to the edge of the bed.  Squinting against the daylight flowing in through James’ window, you spare a quick glance around the small space.

 

The set up of the room is pretty simple: a queen bed in the center of the room, headboard against the wall.  The frame is pretty minimal, plain black and wooden, and the bedding is just as simple—black and plain.  There’re two windows on the wall to the right of the bed, neither of them having curtains.  He has a single bedside table on the opposite side of the bed with a lone shade-less lamp atop it.  His room’s almost identical to your own, just less cluttered and much sleeker.  It’s extremely neat, you note, which doesn’t really surprise you.  James’ entire personality screams order, like a military man’s would.

 

Now that you think of it, you’ve never asked him if he ever served, you just kind of assumed.  You think back to the first time you’d gone to the diner with him.  He’d asked to sit in a booth at the corner of the establishment, with his back to the wall.  He’d reminded you of your dad, the way he conducted himself like a soldier wanting to scope out a situation.

 

Sighing, you run a hand over your face, push up off of the bed, and move to your duffel bag sat atop James’ bedside table.  You pull out your work uniform and quickly undress from your pajamas and shimmy into the outfit (you make sure to add on the tiny black flight attendant-esque scarf to cover up what you can only assume is horrendous bruising around your neck).  It isn’t even ten yet, but you want to get down to the restaurant before your noon shift anyways.  If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll be able to catch Rosie on her lunch break.

 

As you move towards the door to make your way down the hallway, you hear the gentle clanging of dishes and silverware, and only then do you catch a whiff of the mouthwatering smell of bacon.  A small smile finds its way onto your face as you open the door and walk down the short hallway.

 

As you round the corner into the main room of the apartment, you’re met with the sight of James standing at the stove with his back to you.  He’s got his hair tied up into a messy bun at the crown of his head, and he’s wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white short sleeved shirt.  His metal arm is on full display, and you can’t help but stare at it as he shifts and it catches the light.

 

You stand there, mesmerized, as he glides smoothly through the small space, flipping this and plating that.  A few moments pass before you realize how lowkey creepy it is, and you clear your throat awkwardly, shuffling further into the room.  James turns his head only slightly, a knowing smirk on his face.  Immediately, you feel your cheeks heat up.

 

“You knew I was standing there, huh?”  You try to cover your blush with a duck of your head and a laugh.  When he doesn’t respond you glance back up and see he’s turned back around.  His shoulders shake a little and you realize he’s laughing at you.  “Hey!”  You don’t even try to hold back your own laughter.

 

“I know everything.”  You giggle and roll your eyes.  “Plus,” he pauses to gesture at the ground in front of you with his spatula, “you drag your feet, doll.”  This time the blush that rises isn’t out of embarrassment, but something else.  It’s kind of routine at this point; anytime he calls you doll you can’t help but feel warm all over.  It doesn’t help that his voice sounds all raspy like that so early in the morning.

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you grumble good-naturedly, moving to lean across the open counter between the kitchen and dining room.  Your grin refuses to leave your face, and based on what you can see, James is in the same boat.  From where you’re standing, you can just barely see crinkling at the tops of his cheeks, right next to his eyes.  Your smile brightens even more, if that’s possible. 

 

“Did you sleep well?”  You ask lightly.  There’s only a brief moment of hesitation, but it’s enough for you to pick up on it.  If you weren’t so used to spotting it by this point, you might have missed the way that his shoulders tense.  Figuring this might not be the most welcome avenue of conversation, you quickly move on.  “Sorry for stealing your bed, by the way.  I told you I’d be fine with the couch.”  You do your best to inject a joking tone into your voice.

 

The effect is instantaneous, and you watch as the stiffness melts away.  He finishes plating the rest of the bacon he’d been cooking and turns towards you, his barely-there smirk in place.  Those expressive blue eyes of his twinkle with what you assume—or hope—to be appreciation.

 

“And I told you it was fine,” he murmurs, voice gentle.  A few seconds pass where the two of you just stand there, eyes full of glee and dopey grins on your faces.  The effortlessness of it all makes something in your chest move.  _I could get used to this_ , you resolve, scrunching your nose at the thought.  At your expression, James chuckles and turns to grab up the two plates off of the counter.  “C’mon, doll, breakfast’s done.”

 

The two of you eat your bacon and eggs in comfortable silence, you stealing glances at James every once in a while, and him pretending he doesn’t notice them.  Once you’ve both finished your meals, you lean back in your chair and stare down at your lap, fiddling with the hem of your work skirt.

 

“James, I…” you trail off when you hear how shaky your voice is.  “I really can’t thank you enough.  You’ve done so much and you really didn’t need to _at all_ and I just am so, _so_ grateful.”  The last half of your statement melts into a weak whisper as you try and fight back the tears gathering in your eyes.  You’re so caught up that you don’t notice James get up out of his seat.  Nor do you sense him moving to crouch down next to your chair.

 

You jump when his flesh fingers brush against yours, despite the tenderness of his touch.  He promptly moves to remove his hand but you grip it tightly, reassuringly, eyes meeting his in apology.  Smiling soothingly, he cups your hand in his and moves it up to rest against his cheek.

 

The gesture calms you in a matter of seconds.  Your heart rate literally decelerates and you exhale shakily, your eyes fluttering closed.  Instinctively, you rub your thumb over James’ cheekbone, and you feel him tilt his head into the touch.  When you open your eyes, you see that his own are half closed, and you smile softly.

 

“Thanks,” you breathe.  “Again.”

 

“You don’t need to thank me, Y/N,” he whispers back.  “I’m just,” his voice tenses, “I’m so sorry you had to see that side of me.”  You shake your head the second the words leave his mouth, which he responds to with a sigh.  “Y/N,” he starts, but you shush him.

 

Reaching out with your right hand, you delicately brush your fingertips over the plates of his cybernetic arm.  The way that he tenses up under your touch almost makes you withdraw, but you know all too well how in his head he gets about his arm.  You run the pad of your middle finger up his bicep, and bring it up to trace one of the bottom points of the red star.

 

Despite what he’s said and what you’ve seen, you can’t bring yourself to be afraid of this arm, his arm.  It’s part of him, and you care for him, so why on earth would you disregard it?  You want to explain this to him, but you know it would fall on deaf ears no matter what you say.

 

Entranced, you slide your hand down to his elbow, giving it a gentle tap to signal for him to lift it up.  He obliges, eyes boring into the side of your face in confusion.  You turn your arm around to rest your palm against the back of his, fitting the lines of your hand against his knuckles and lacing your fingers together like that.  He mimics the motion, folding his fingers inward, still somewhat perplexed.  That is, until you bring your clasped hands to rest against your chest, just over your heart.

 

Finally, you bring your gaze back up to meet James’.  “Yesterday… I know that wasn’t you, not really.”  He falters for a moment at your words, but you continue on.  “You don’t have to explain who that was to me, if you don’t want to.  You never have to explain yourself to me, okay?”  Your eyes are wide and expectant as they stare into his.

 

For what feels like hours, there’s no sound in the room other than your heartbeat thudding in your ears.  The entire time, James never breaks eye contact with you.  He just stares.  If it were anyone else, it would unsettle you, probably even make you feel insecure, but not with him.  With James, there’s never a chance of you ever feeling uncertain, not anymore.

 

When he finally speaks, his words come out sounding strangled.

 

“Y/N, there’s just… I’m not...  I wasn’t _myself_ , but that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t _me_.”  His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and carries on.  “Remember, um,” he hesitates, eyes darting down to your joined hands.  “Th-that first time you came over here, when we had dinner?”  You nod.  “I told you that, uh, that I was a weapon.”  He pauses again, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut.  He takes a deep breath to recollect himself before speaking again.

 

“I wasn’t always… this wasn’t always me, Y/N.”  His voice has taken on a slightly higher pitch and his words are coming a bit faster.  Your heart rate begins to pick up when you feel him start to shake, mind flashing back to that first time you’d seen him shaken.  “I was just a kid from Brooklyn before I got drafted an’ then I went to war a-and it ruined me.”  _Drafted? What the hell?_   “They always taught us that fighting would change us, and we never believed them but then, I got captured in Azzano, then I fell and then I…”  He trails off, voice thick with emotion, but you barely even notice. 

 

The thought hits you like a truck full of bricks, but you do your best to silence it.  _No, it’s not possible_.  Your brain is a complete mess as you stare at the man in front of you.  Puzzle pieces start to fit together in your mind, and you want to hit yourself for not realizing sooner.

 

“James?” You croak out.

 

His eyes snap up to yours and at the look on your face, he seems to start to panic.  Your hand slides from his face as you lean away from him, searching his face, trying to put the pieces together.  _There’s no way.  It’s literally impossible._

 

“Y-yeah?”

 

He sounds so afraid, back on the edge of that fight-or-flight cliff.  You hear how wobbly his words come out, but you ignore it, completely absorbed in your thoughts, now running a mile a minute.

 

“Wh-what’s your full name?”

 

Your voice is ragged now, words trembling, breaths shaky.  His voice is tinged with consternation and suspicion when he answers.

 

“James Buchanan Barnes…”

 

And just like that, everything falls into place.  You feel your eyes grow to the size of saucers, your jaw drop, your eyebrows shoot up.  You’re still holding his metal hand in yours, and you stare down at it.

 

“You’re Bucky Barnes,” you breathe.  “H-how the _hell_ is that possible?  Y-you were Captain America’s best friend, you fucking _died_ in World War II!”  Swept up in the flurry of thoughts that flood your mind, you don’t notice that James has shifted away from you, and is now standing a few feet from you.

 

“Y/N,” he speaks lowly, the waver gone from his tone.  When you look up at him, you see that his entire body is rigid, and his eyes have a fearful yet guarded glaze over them.  His change in behavior throws you off, and you stand as well, confusion and concern clouding over your features.  When you get up, however, he moves a step away from you.

 

“James, what’s wrong?”

 

His eyes harden when you move to take another step towards him and you promptly backpedal, confusion morphing into anxiety.  He doesn’t move or speak again, just continues to stare you down, and you can’t fight off the thought that pops into your mind: _he looked at Ethan like that._

 

“J-James what is it?”  You squeak out, unable to hide the tremor that swallows up your voice.

 

“How do you know that?  How do you know who I am?”

 

The sharpness of his tone nearly makes you flinch.  You scramble for an answer.  “W-we all learned about you in high school, in history class.  You were Captain Rogers’ best friend, y-you’re a war hero.”  You’re still having trouble processing this, processing _him_ , that James— _your_ James—is Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes of the Howling Commandos, best friend of Captain Steve Rogers, veteran of World War II.

 

“I w-was in history books?”  His posture has relaxed significantly, the original tension now replaced by confusion.

 

“Yes! _Christ_ , I wrote an essay about you my junior year, how in _sweet fuck_ are you alive?  You’re over a hundred years old!”  Your mind is running absolutely wild right now, and you start to feel dizzy.

 

James must catch this because within seconds he’s guided you to sit back down in your chair.  Once he’s made sure you’re not going to pass out, he collects up your dirty dishes along with his own and moves out of your line of sight, into the kitchen to set them in the sink.

 

He returns moments later, a strained look on his face.  Dropping heavily into the seat opposite yours, he leans forward to rest his elbows against his knees. He sighs, running his flesh hand over his face.  Huffing and shaking his head, he brings his wide bewildered eyes to yours—an expression you’re sure to be mirroring.

 

“I guess I should start from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rushed through this chapter a bit so if there's typos I'm sorry! Also this chapter really is so far from what I had planned, it's insane but I got on a roll and couldn't stop kdjfdkjd I hope y'all like it <3


	18. Dark Doom Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After James' revelations, there's a new layer of trust between the two of you, to his disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely ecstatic about how this chapter came out pero it be like that sometimes
> 
> (Chapter title from _I Follow Rivers_ by Lykke Li)

“Um… _woah_.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

You glance towards the clock on the stove, seeing that it’s half past eleven.  James had just spent the better part of the last hour explaining the last hundred years of his existence to you.  It was _quite_ the fucking ride.

 

He broke down what happened when joining the army, fighting alongside Captain Rogers—he called him “Stevie”—getting captured and experimented on, falling into a fucking _ravine_ , losing his arm during the fall, and getting “rescued” (“When they came with the stretcher and helped me up, I thought they were on our side, I thought they were saving me.  They weren’t… they must have known that I got injected with their serum and come to find me.”).  He tells you about how he was a weapon for seventy something years, about going on ice, about being wiped (“They wanted me blank, but I’ve been thawed so long, I remember everything from then.” “ _...Everything?_ ”  He’d sighed remorsefully.  “Everything.”).

 

He talks about the last few years, about being sent after the Director of SHIELD in D.C.—which you vaguely remember seeing on the news—and about having to fight Captain Rogers and the rest of his team.  He talks about saving Rogers once he recognizes him, about going back to the bank, about running.  He explains that for the last two years he’s been in and around New York, trying to figure out who he was, to remember.

 

And that brings us to the present.

 

Now he sits before you, gaze focused on his hands which are twiddling anxiously in his lap.  You barely spoke the entire time he was talking, only ever contributing the odd “woah”, or “oh my god”.  Even now, you’re too astonished to say much.  So instead of speaking, you reach out and rest your hand atop his own. There's a few more minutes of quiet where James just stares at your hand on his, refusing to look at you.

 

“James, look at me,” you whisper as gently as you can.

 

It takes a few moments of lingering silence for him to finally bring his eyes up to yours. They’re brighter than you’ve ever seen them before, and it almost takes your breath away.  The clear cerulean blue of his irises is sparkling, and his lashes are twinkling with yet-to-be-shed tears.  Offering up a kind smile, you squeeze his hand.

 

“I’m glad you told me.”

 

His mouth falls agape as he sputters for a reply.

 

“Y-you’re glad?”

 

“Yes,” you murmur, shifting forward in your seat so you can lean closer to him.  “I already trusted you, James.  Nothing can really change that for me.  If anything, I trust you even more, now.”

 

He’s positively dumbfounded.

 

“Why?”

 

The combination of his disbelieving tone and the crackling of his words makes something in your chest crack.  Shaking your head and doing your best to keep from tearing up, you give his hand another squeeze.

 

You can sense where his brain is at, and you want to pluck the thoughts right from his mind. 

 

“You’re so, so self-sacrificing, you realize?”  When all you get in response is a confused wrinkle between his brows you sigh.  “James, since the 30’s you’ve been going out of your way to help people, to save and protect them.  Eighty years later, and you’re still at it.”  He’s still got that doubtful glint in his eyes and you huff.  “How many times have you saved Steve?  How many lives did you save in the war?”

 

“I took just as many, if not more, when I was the Soldat,” he spits severely.

 

“ _That wasn’t you!_ ”  You snap.

 

You both pause, taken aback by the malice laced through your words.  Since James has known you, you’ve yet to raise your voice at anyone, let alone him, and it makes his eyes bug out of his head a little.  Taking a steadying breath, you try to reel yourself back in.

 

“James, they brainwashed you, they _made_ you do those things.”

 

He stays silent for a few moments, eyes flickering between yours.  It’s like he’s searching for something, trying to figure out whether you’re lying or not.

 

“I’m telling you the truth.  I trust you.”

 

Releasing a shaky breath, he nods jerkily.  Averting his eyes, James clears his throat and you take that as your cue to release his hands and sit back in your chair.  You nearly miss the brief flash of disappointment that comes over his features, but it’s gone too quickly for you to do anything about it.

 

“You have work soon, doll,” he mumbles, rising from his chair and swiping his palms along the thighs of his sweatpants anxiously.  “Let me change and I’ll walk you down there.”  Avoiding your gaze, he turns to walk back towards his bedroom, leaving you sat at the table.

 

As you watch his figure recede down the hallway, you sigh.

 

***

 

“You don’t have to stay the whole time, y’know.”

 

“No, but I want to.”

 

“You’re a stubborn one, huh?”  Fighting back a smile, you do your best to sound exasperated.  Throwing a sidelong glance James’ way, you catch the slightest tilt of his lips in his signature barely-there smirk.

 

“No more than you, doll.”

 

Huffing indignantly, you tilt your chin up and put on a fake pout, drawing a chuckle from the man beside you. 

 

It feels like the two of you have hit a mini reset. Since leaving the apartment, he’s been back to his old self, joking and smirking.  It’s a vast improvement from the state he was in after the heavy breakfast discussion.

 

For most of the walk to the restaurant, he’s been trying to convince you to let him stay until your shift is over, “to keep an eye on you”, as he said.  It warmed your heart that he wanted to look out for you, but you couldn’t help but feel a little bad. 

 

You didn’t mean to turn into a burden or liability for him, and you know that it’s just in his nature to protect.  After literally saving your life, it’s no surprise he felt the need to watch over you.  Despite knowing that it’s just as much for his peace of mind as it is your own, you still feel a little guilty.

 

“Seriously, J,” you grumble, voice turning serious.  This catches his attention, and he gazes down at you, an eyebrow quirked.  “You don’t need to be my bodyguard all day long.  I never meant to become a chore for you, you’ve done enough already.”

 

You’re answered with a snort and a roll of his eyes.

 

“Doll, you’re not a chore.”  As he speaks, the two of you reach the front doors of the restaurant, and he reaches to pull open the door for you.  Ducking in before him, you groan and glance around behind the bar for Cason.  When you don’t catch sight of him, you sigh in relief and tug on James’ jacket to bring him around towards the back section of booths.

 

“Sit over here, it’s mine and Rosalie’s section.”  You ignore the smug twinkle in his eyes and roll your own.  “Don’t get too comfortable, hot shot.  I’ll kick you out with no remorse.”  His face drops for a split second but once he catches the mischievous glint in your eyes he chuckles and leans back in the booth.

 

“Whatever you say, doll.”

 

With a scrunch of your nose, you turn and make your way towards the workroom.

 

***

 

As you’re placing your purse into your small employee locker, you hear the door behind you swing open.  Glancing over your shoulder, you're met with Rosalie’s bright green eyes, already crinkling in a smile.

 

“Hey sweetie, you’re here early,” she attempts to joke, but you can see concern growing in her eyes as her gaze flickers over you.  You cringe when she zeroes in on the scarf tied around your neck.  “I don’t want to know, but I’m gonna ask…”  She steps further into the room and closes the door behind her, making her way closer to you.

 

“Yeah, uh,” your voice catches.  “He bruised me up pretty bad, Rose.”

 

She doesn’t even bother hiding her outrage.

 

“Honey, why didn’t you call me?”

 

“I just… well…”  You’re having trouble finding the right thing to say.  “You remember the guy I told you about?  James?”  She nods, eyes narrowed in confusion.  “He, uh, saved me.”

 

Her body language shifts so quickly it damn near gives you whiplash.  Within seconds she’s toe to toe with you, eyes earnest.

 

“Spill, now.”

 

And you do.  You tell her everything.  (Okay not _everything_ , but you give her all the important bullet points, gracefully omitting the fact that James may or may not be a century old).  Once you’ve finished, her eyes are wide, and you can see the gears turning in her head.  After a few moments of silence, she finally offers up a small smile.

 

“So, when do I get to meet this hero of yours?”

 

At the look on your face, her smile widens, and you feel yourself go red as a cherry.

 

“Uhm, h-he’s here,” you choke out.

 

“Let me get this straight… you’re telling me I get to meet my best friend’s savior who just so happens to have her blushing like a schoolgirl at the mere mention of him?”  If possible, your face heats up even more.  Rosie giggles conspiratorially and spins on her heel to make her way back out onto the main floor of the restaurant.  Lunging forward, you stop her before she can get to the door with a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Rosie, _please_ , I’m begging you not to scare him off, I really—” you cut yourself off before you can embarrass yourself even further.  You don’t even have to look up from your feet to know that Rose has on that beaming maternal smile of hers.

 

“Of course not, hun.  But you know I’ve gotta scope him out—just in case.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever mom,” you grumble with a good-natured eyeroll. 

 

“Just lookin’ out for my girl,” she says, her smile widening.  You can’t help but mirror her grin.

 

Before you can thank her, Cason’s voice rings out, yelling for you and Rose.  You both groan simultaneously, causing the pair of you to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

 

“Duty calls, but promise to introduce me during break later?”

 

“I promise.”

 

***

 

“I’ll have that right out in a few!”  

 

Rosie scribbles down her latest table’s order and turns to make her way back to the kitchen.  After depositing the small order sheet on the spinning rack, she moves back behind the bar, getting to work with cleaning down glasses and setting them up behind the counter.  Glancing up, she’s stopped short at the sight before her.

 

You’re leaning against a booth in the corner, halfway turned away from her, but she can just barely see the smile on your face as you talk to the guy at the table before you.  Being a waitress, it’s pretty required to be welcoming and smiley with customers, but she can tell that this one’s different. 

 

 _Oh_ , realization dawns on her.  _This is him_.

 

The guy, James, is just the perfect picture of big, broad, and broody, but the second you open your mouth, Rosalie sees his eyes light up.  Moving behind the bar, she does her best to seem busy while still keeping her eye on the pair of you.  She finds herself smiling behind her hand when she hears your shy giggle ring out across the room.  When she steals another glance, she sees that the James guy looks almost flustered, but he has a firm smirk in place.

 

Rosie feels some kind of weird motherly pride wriggle around in her chest at the sight of you being so unabashedly at ease.  It’s rare enough to see it in you on a day off, let alone at work, and the sight has her fighting back an annoying coo.

 

He must feel Rose’s eyes on him because he looks up, gaze immediately locking on hers, his smile falling from his face.  Rosie falters for a second before you turn around, immediately blushing at having been caught up in your little moment with James.

 

You offer a small wave before turning back to him and whispering something.  Rose watches with curious eyes as something akin to realization and recognition falls across his features as you speak to him.  From this distance, she can’t hear anything, but it seems safe to assume that you explained who Rosie was to him.

 

Spinning on your heel to go back to work, ears red, you throw a pointed look Rose’s way and mouth “be nice” to her.  She chuckles and sticks her tongue out at you before turning back to her work behind the bar.

 

After a few minutes, Rose hears the sharp ring of the kitchen bell and a shout of “table nine”.  As she moves towards the counter to grab up the order for her customer’s, she accidentally catches James’ eye.

 

Stopping in her tracks, she gives him a quick once over, and then a brief nod of her head.  He returns the gesture, throwing in a tentative wave.  Rosalie offers a friendly smirk and makes her way back over to the counter, returning to her work.

 

Maybe she _will_ like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwing in Rosalie's POV was a last minute decision and it might seem a little clunky thrown in here, but I feel like an outside perspective looking in on Reader and James is kinda refreshing (also usually when I get stuck in terms of inspo for a chapter, I like to change up the pov to see if I can make it more interesting). I'd love to hear what y'all think!


	19. All the Same to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Rosalie finally meet and let's just say your face is twenty shades of embarrassed the whole time.
> 
> Some new people enter the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kinda short but it's gonna set up the next chapter so perfectly I'm excitedddd
> 
> Also if you've seen the chapter numbers, you can see that I plan on ending this series at 25 chapters! I have them all planned out and outlined all nice and professional like, which is fun for me, but also I'm allergic to following a plan, so we'll have to see lol~
> 
> (Title from _All the Same to Me_ by Anya Marina)

“So, he’s cute, huh?”

 

Rosalie bumps your hip with hers as the two of you stand at your lockers, grabbing your bags for your mid afternoon break.  You roll your eyes and giggle, scrunching your nose and fighting back the blush you feel crawling up your neck.

 

“You’re relentless, Rosie,” you mumble, unable to look at her.

 

“Ooh, someone’s smitten!”  She pokes your cheek as she teases you and you slap her hand away huffing.  “Y/N’s got a crush,” she singsongs, closing her locker and dance-walking backwards to the door.

 

“On God, in heaven above, if you act like this in front of him, I’ll disown you faster than you can sass me.”  The threat’s delivered with no bite, but Rose plays her part well, throwing her hand over her heart with a melodramatic gasp as she holds the door for you.

 

“How rude!”

 

You both giggle at your shenanigans as you make your way over to the table where James is.  He glances up at you, smiling as you make eye contact, and you once again feel that all-too-familiar heat creeping across your cheeks.

 

When you and Rosie make it to his table, he stands, ever the gentleman, and gestures for you to sit down.

 

“Ladies,” he speaks lowly, and you can’t help but scrunch your nose at his chivalry.

 

Rose catches your eye as the two of you sit down and she gives you a look that seems to say “wow, look at that”, which only causes you to erupt into nervous but appreciative laughter.  James slides into the booth after you, stretching his right arm across the back cushion.

 

You look up at him as you settle in, a smile on your face.

 

“Hope you weren’t bored all day,” you say, reaching to grab a French fry off of his plate and popping it into your mouth.

 

“Nah, long as I’m fed, I’m fine.”  At that you chuckle, and when you see Rose’s earnest expression from across the table, you sigh playfully, nudging her foot with yours.

 

“James, this is my best friend Rosalie.  Rosie, this is James.” The pair nod at each other, polite smiles on their faces.

 

“Honored to meet you, finally,” Rose says all too sweetly, throwing you an exaggerated look.  You scoff, but give her a warning look in return, daring her to say something. When all she does is smirk mischievously, the hard look in your eyes dissipates and is replaced with something akin to pleading. _Please don’t embarrass me._ She ignores you easily, resting her chin in her palm and focusing on James.

 

“So how did you two meet?”

 

James clears his throat and straightens up in his seat even more, coming to the realization that this may or may not turn into a grilling.  You throw him a sympathetic smile and an encouraging nod of your head.

 

You’d warned him earlier on in the day that Rose has a habit of being kind of intense at times, and she’s—understandably—pretty protective of you (“She mothers me a bit, so don’t be surprised if she goes for the jugular” “I’m not easily intimidated, doll” “Yeah, well, you’ve never been on Rosalie’s bad side, hot shot”).

 

“Um, a few weeks ago Y/N kinda just ran into me,” he speaks slowly, as if the story’s only just now coming back to him.  Rosalie giggles at your surprised expression and you glare at her.

 

“What?  You are a klutz, sweetie,” she reasons with a teasing smile.  She turns back to James and fake whispers conspiratorially. “I swear she’s got three left feet.”  When James lets out a deep rumbling chuckle, you feel your entire face heat up again and you slouch down in your seat, defeated.

 

“Aw, don’t feel bad doll, it’s cute.”  James bumps his knee against yours and you roll your eyes, trying your damnedest not to get _even_ redder.

 

“I regret letting you two interact,” you grumble.  

 

They both laugh again at your expense, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the atmosphere around the three of you.  It’s been forever since you’ve hung out like this, so at ease and calm, and it feels like such a refresher. The two most important people to you in the world, here, talking to each other, smiling and laughing.

 

Weirdly enough, the two of them fall into easygoing small talk, asking surface level get-to-know-you questions.  You don’t miss the way that James embellishes a few of his details here and there, but you obviously don’t mind it.  Smiling to yourself, you settle in a bit closer to his side, pretending not to notice him noticing, and melt into the easy conversation flowing over the table.

 

This might be something that you could get used to.

 

***

 

“Cap, I think we’ve got him!”

 

Steve damn near busts down the door as he barrels in from the next room.  He immediately makes his way over to his friend, leaning against the back of his chair to find what he'd called him in for.  His usually bright eyes are bloodshot and have deep shadows under them, but they remain wide and determined as he looks over Sam’s shoulder to focus on his computer screen.

 

“What am I lookin’ at?”

 

Sam enlarges the image on his desktop screen, and Steve bends forward, his brow furrowed.  It’s a blurry screen recording from traffic cam footage, zoomed in and cropped, focused on two figures in the crowd.  It's a man and a woman as they make their way down the sidewalk, leaning towards each other.

 

The woman just looks like an average dame, wearing what looks to be a waitress uniform and carrying a purse.  _Civilian,_ Steve notes.  The man beside her, however, steals away his attention before he can make any further observations. The guy’s built like a linebacker, and from his posture, he looks like he's ready to pounce.  His hair is dark and about shoulder length, messily shoved under a baseball cap; he’s wearing a leather jacket and a single glove on his left hand. It’s not much, but it’s there, it’s _him._

 

“Holy shit, we got him,” Steve breathes, voice tinted with shock and disbelief.  Sam huffs a quiet chuckle before turning towards his laptop on a separate desk.

 

“Watch the language, Rogers, else I’ll start a swear jar for you.”

 

Tapping away at his keyboard, Sam yawns as he searches for other camera angles to run a facial recognition on the girl.  It's been weeks since they've slept properly, ever since Cap thought he saw someone who may or may not have been Bucky in the streets (he'd disappeared before they could catch up to him).  That was nearly two months ago, and they're only just now getting answers.

 

After only a few minutes, Sam’s able to find a clear-ish image to run through the comparison database.

 

Leaning back in his chair, the dark skinned man twists his lips up and squints.  The computer program lets out a quiet zipping noise as it flips through public records, running through streams of data, whooshing away non-matches and moving on to the next.

 

Sam sighs quietly.

 

“What are we gonna do if we get to him, man?”  He doesn't mean to, but a twinge of defeat and exhaustion worm their way into his words.  He isn't convinced this is it.  It's fair, considering they've 'found' Buck a few times before, only for him to slip right through their fingers.

 

Steve doesn’t respond, just squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.  If he's gonna be honest, he didn’t have much of a plan, not yet.  He didn’t think they’d be able to catch Bucky this soon on again, _especially_ not in America.  They’d already swept the whole country looking for him, _twice_.  How the hell would they know he’d be in the same city as them? Though, now that he thinks about it, that must have been the plan in the first place: hide right under their noses.

 

“I guess… we try and reason with him?  He’s not exactly a free man.  At least we can protect him for a while.”  Steve winces when Sam scoffs and twists his chair around to face him.

 

“For all we know, he’s been in New York for two years dude.  I don’t think he’s all that worried about being granted refuge by a couple of rogue Avengers.”

 

Okay, so maybe he has a point.  It almost seems foolish now, to bother trying to use the ‘I just want to protect him’ excuse with Sam.  They both know that yeah, maybe this started out as a rescue mission, a way to keep Bucky safe from Hydra and the U.S. Government.  But now, it’s different. Maybe it’s just become Steve being selfish, or maybe he really does want what’s best for his friend, he can’t tell.  All he knows is that he won’t sleep until he sees Buck.  He can't risk losing him, not again.

 

Just as Steve is opening his mouth to respond, Sam’s laptop lets out a shrill ping, drawing both of the men’s attention.

 

On the screen, next to the fuzzy street cam footage, is a DMV license photo displaying a clear image of the woman that had been with Bucky.  Steve immediately gets to work jotting down all of her information on the closest notepad he can find.

 

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Sam remarks thoughtfully, squinting his eyes at the picture of the woman.  “She’s pretty…” There’s some kind of combination of playful and mischievous in his tone and Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“Aren’t you seeing that nice secretary gal from the VA?”

 

“It’s casual, Steve, nothing exclusive.”  That draws laughter out of both of them. There are a few moments of silence after they settle back down before Sam speaks again.  “You think they’re an item?”

 

Steve shoots him a brief look out of the corner of his eye before he busies himself with looking up everything he can about this Y/N Y/L/N girl.  A few strokes of the keyboard has already brought up pages and pages of social media profiles revolving around her.  _The internet really is a gift._

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“I _mean,_ ” he leans on the word, once again drawing Steve’s full attention.  “Pretty girl, fugitive of the law? That footage makes ‘em seem awful cozy.  Maybe she’s part of the reason he’s stayed in New York instead of jumping ship and fucking off to Europe?”

 

The idea doesn’t seem too outlandish, and Steve weighs the probabilities in his head.  If 2018 Bucky is anything like 1943 Bucky, it’s nearly guaranteed he’s got a girl, but... It just doesn’t feel all that likely considering, y’know, the half decade of trauma and bloodshed.

 

“I doubt it, but if she is, we could make that work in our favor.”  Steve taps his pen against his bottom lip as he thinks, eyes falling on his laptop.  On the screen is Y/N’s Facebook page, and right smack on the top of her profile is her working place.  “She works at a restaurant called the Alibi. Maybe we should go down tomorrow, see if we can talk to her.”

 

Sam nods, his lips pursed.  “Mhmm, and what exactly do we plan to talk to her about?”

 

This time the blond doesn’t bother holding back his eye roll.  Exhaling loudly through his nose, he rips the top sheet off of his legal pad, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.  Throwing his friend a sarcastic smile, Steve stands and turns towards the door.

 

“We’ll go tomorrow at noon,” he says over his shoulder.

 

“Oh goody!  I can’t wait to wear my favorite disguise: a hat and sunglasses!”

 

“Asshole,” Steve mutters, scoffing.

 

_“Swear jar!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finals next week so I'll probably upload Saturday instead of Friday. (I might post Friday if I'm not exhausted from exams but Saturday is the latest I'll put it off to).
> 
> Also I feel like it's important to note that while writing this, I kind of wanted to build it into the Civil War timeline, so feel free to imagine that all of this happened and the events that occur in the following chapters (oooh mysterious) will pretty much alter the whole end of Civil War. The Accords still happened, but the big battle doesn't go down the same. A Universe Alteration, if you will :~) Let me know what y'all thought <3


	20. No Compromising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything from today and the day before, it's hard to believe that anything could bring you down from whatever mountain you're on right now. Life must exist purely to prove you wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so long omfg but I hope you all like it! The chapter coming next week might be my favorite one in this story omgggg I'm so excited for y'all to see it!! Also I promise there'll be more Sam and Steve in that one, I just need to get warmed up to writing them lol.
> 
> ~~I'm changing my upload days to Saturdays for the sake of my sanity!!! I'm sorry if this is an inconvenience to anyone but I hope you all understand <3~~
> 
> (Title from _The Pressure_ by Jhené Aiko)
> 
> ** Russian translations in the end notes; once again I used google translate lol don't kill me

Tinkling laughter fills the still night air of the streets as you, James, and Rosalie make your ways out of the Alibi.  After your mid-afternoon lunch with the two—full of them making you blush like a madwoman, of course—you and Rosie had gone back to work, spending your free moments poking fun at each other and James.  It’s felt like one of the best days you’ve had in what feels like years.

 

“You two are ridiculous,” James huffs, biting back a smile as he holds the door open for the two of you.

 

“You’re just jealous that we’re more fun than you!”  Rose says, and snorts when James rolls his eyes at her.  You can barely hold down the giggle that you feel bubbling up in your chest.  James throws a sideways glance your way and you stick your tongue out at him in response.

 

“Ridiculous!”  The word is delivered with no bite, and at the sparkle in his eyes, you can tell it’s something akin to a term of endearment coming from him.  God, your whole face is going to be sore tomorrow with how much you’ve been smiling today.

 

Pausing along the sidewalk, your little trio stands around, joy alight on all of your faces.  A breeze rushes past and you instinctively wrap your arms around your waist, stepping forward a bit so James can block the wind from nipping at your skin.  As you do so, he smiles down at you and steps closer, shielding you even better.

 

“Thanks,” you murmur shyly.

 

“’Course, doll.”

 

You feel your face heat up as you gaze up at him, but you’re snapped out of your little trance when Rosalie groans and makes a fake retching noise.  Immediately, you feel your eyes roll so hard you have to tilt your head back, which causes James to laugh.

 

“Y’all are just,” she pauses to scrunch her nose in faux disgust, “too _cute_ , God.  I need to leave before I get a cavity or develop heart problems.”  With a pointed look your way, Rosie turns and raises her hand up, hailing a taxi.  Within moments, one has swept up to the curb, and she opens the door and leans in, asking the driver to ‘wait one sec’. 

 

“You staying in your apartment?” she asks softly. 

 

The shift in her tone and body language catches you off guard, and you feel your stomach drop a bit as you catch on to what she’s asking.  Unsure, you glance up at James, the question in your eyes, and he sends a quick look your way, a crease appearing between his brows.  You open your mouth to respond to Rose, but he interjects gently.

 

“We’re still figuring it out but for now… Y/N’s probably staying with me.” 

 

His voice trails off a little bit towards the end, and you can just barely pick up on the notes of hesitation and uncertainty in his words.  Once more, before you can say anything, you’re interrupted.

 

“Yeah, well, I’m counting on you to take care of my girl, dude,” Rosie squints at James, her creased brow casting a shadow over her eyes. 

 

James falters for a moment, and you watch as he stumbles over his words, obviously surprised by Rose’s forwardness.  His eyes widen and his cheeks flush a rubicund shade before he catches himself.  Nodding, lips drawing taut in determination, he holds his flesh hand out to Rosie, offering for her to take it.

 

“I’ve got her.”

 

Rosalie purses her lips in thought before she finally grips James’ hand and shakes it.

 

“Good.  And _you,”_ she turns to you, eyes narrowed.  You feel your eyes bug out before she breaks out in a grin and leans in for a hug, wrapping her arms tightly around you.  “Be safe, sweetie.  Call me if you need anything.”  Something twists in your chest as you squeeze her back and sigh.

 

“I will, Rosie.”

 

“Okay,” she mumbles, pulling away and swiping at her face.  _God, she’s crying…_ You don’t think you can recall a time you’ve _ever_ seen Rosalie cry.  “Have a good night you two.”  Without waiting for either you or James to respond, Rose spins on her heel and hops into the taxi.

 

A bewildered smile on his face, James turns back towards you, his eyes sparkling under the streetlights.  On instinct, you smile back.  For a few moments, the two of you just stand there, eyes locked, before another chilling draught rushes past, making you shiver and shrug your shoulders up to your ears.  Chuckling, he shakes his head and gestures back towards your apartment building with a jerk of his head.

 

“Let’s get you out of the cold, huh?”

 

***

 

The walk back to the apartment is quiet, but lovely, in a peaceful kind of way.  It doesn’t hurt that a light flurry of snow starts to fall around the pair of you as you make your ways back, which creates what feels like a magical aura around you both.  It almost makes you feel like you’re in a dream as you walk, and you only really snap out of it when the hot air blasting through the lobby hits you.

 

Shuffling towards the elevators, you feel yourself being lulled, the familiarity warming you up from the inside out.  As you stand next to James before the doors, and watch him press the ‘up’ button, you can’t hide the smile splitting your face.  He must catch it out of the corner of his eyes, because you can see him smirking to himself as the doors open and he steps aside to let you in.

 

The ride is silent, but a giddy static buzz fills up the air between the two of you.  James stands in his normal spot, just before the doors, and you lean against the wall to his right, gazing at him with a soft beam adorning your features. _This just feels so… right._

 

With everything that’s happened the last few days, it almost seems impossible that you can feel as utterly serene as you do in this moment.  Your hand only shaking a little bit, you reach up a hand to toy with one of the tails of your scarf, wincing when the movement causes the fabric to tug at your bruises.  He doesn’t say anything but you can tell by the way that James glances at you from the corner of his eye that he must have noticed.  Sighing, you let your head fall against the wall, but you keep your eyes on him.

 

“I know you hate when I say it, but—”

 

“Doll…”  His tone has some sort of firmness to it, but the twitch of his lips betrays him.

 

“Thank you.  For everything.”  Your tone is the sincerest you’ve ever heard it, but he shakes his head anyways, barely sparing you another glance.

 

“You don’t have to thank me, Y/N, I mean it.”

 

“I know that but I just… I really don’t know where the hell I‘d be without you, that’s a fact.”  A shiver runs up your spine when you realize that you could very well be dead if it weren’t for James.  A nearly-inaudible gasp makes its way out of you.  “I mean _that.”_

 

The crackling in your voice must catch his attention, because James turns to you.  Those bright blue eyes of his are swimming with what looks to be thousands upon thousands of emotions.  You can just barely make out the sound of his metal arm humming due to what you can only assume is nerves.

 

“Hey, what is it?”

 

His response is cut off by the _ding_ of the elevator arriving on your floor, and he must take that as his cue to escape.  He doesn’t bother waiting for the doors to open fully, twisting sideways and slipping through the widening crack between them.  You’re on his heels immediately, worry gripping at your heart, but in the next second, he’s stopped in his tracks, and you’re colliding with him. 

 

Without turning around, he wraps his right arm around you with his hand at your back, pulling you flush against him and rotating the both of you sideways.  All this does is further disorient you, and you stumble again.  Clammy hands latching onto his sides and clutching at his jacket, you do your best to get your feet back under you.

 

“James, what the hell are y—” you gasp out, but immediately stop when you hear it.  That familiar voice that makes your bones feel heavy.

 

“Y/N?”

 

If it’s possible to pass out while still being completely awake and lucid, you’re certain that you’re doing it right now.  It almost feels like you’re astral projecting, if anything.  Every nerve ending in your body suddenly feels like it’s sparking awake like a live wire, and you shudder.  The bruises encompassing your throat start to throb; they’re demanding your attention, reminding you that they’re there, _why_ they’re there, who _put them_ there.  _Oh god, fuck, why the hell is he here?_

 

You feel James’ palm dig into your back, pressing you even tighter against him, and you realize that he’s shielding you from Ethan.  Mentally thanking him fifty times over, you squeeze your hands against his sides once, letting him know that you’re alright.

 

“Y/N, baby, please talk to me,” Ethan’s voice comes again.  A sick satisfaction fills you when you hear his labored breathing and the croak of his voice.  James’ hit must have done some lasting damage.  _It’s what he deserves._

 

You feel James shift against you, and only then do you realize you’ve scrunched your eyes shut and pressed your forehead against his back, hiding your face.  Opening your eyes and looking up, you meet James’, now steely and somber.  In them you see a swirl of concern and poorly concealed rage, which in any other situation might cause you to tremble, but you know better than that.

 

“I d-don’t,” your stutter and the wobble of your chin probably communicates exactly what you’re planning to say, but James patiently waits for you to finish, knowing that you need to do this, need to be the one to say it.  A beat passes before you try again, voice even quieter than before.  “I don’t want to see him,” you whisper, and it’s a wonder James even hears you.

 

With a terse nod of his head, he turns back forward, and you can only imagine the unrelenting hatred he must be directing Ethan’s way. The agitated whirring of James’ cybernetic arm rises in pitch, and the plates click together, shifting and rearranging.

 

“Leave.”

 

The bass in James’ voice rumbles through his back and you feel it rattling through you.  Even that little Russian lilt is back, curling through his words.  The combination of characteristics lends a hand in making him feel at least ten times more intimidating than usual, and you hope—oh god, do you hope—that Ethan’s having flashbacks to the last time he was in the same room as him.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Get your shit and _leave._ ”

 

You risk a glance around James’ left side, peeking out from behind his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of Ethan.  You feel the hand against your back flex, tugging at your coat, trying to hold you back, but you ignore it.  You know that James is trying to save you from the pain of seeing Ethan, and you know that he’s right for wanting to do so, it’s just that your nosiness is getting the best of you.

 

You’re met with the sight of a wide eyed, bruised, and exhausted looking Ethan.  His curly brown hair is a mess, like he hasn’t brushed it in days, and it looks like he’s wearing the same outfit you last saw him in.  Heavy shadows hang beneath his eyes, and you can’t help but notice that his nose looks… not quite right, like it’s sitting on an angle.  Some small part of you, the girl that might still love him, is yelling at you to feel bad, telling you this is your fault; the smarter part of you, however, wants to smile and celebrate his hurting.

 

Those big brown eyes of his meet yours, wide and frantic, and he steps forward, a hand reaching out, beseeching. 

 

“Baby girl, please,” Ethan pleads.  Automatically you recoil, unable to move backwards, instead curling further against James.  Your shaky hands grasp at him even more, using his presence to ground you.

 

“I c-can’t,” you breathe out, more to yourself than anyone else, but James hears it of course.  Rubbing his thumb over your back, he does what he can to soothe you while not allowing his attention to waver from the man stood before you both.

 

“You need to leave,” his voice is sharp, firm, and deadly.  _“Now.”_

 

“D-Dude, _fuck_ no, that’s not—"

 

“Not what? Not _fair_? Fuck you. Get your shit and go, or else I _make_ you go.”

 

Tense silence fills up the empty hallway, and you swear they can both hear your heart pounding away in your chest, trying to leap right up your throat.  You hold your breath, afraid of what might come next.  _They won’t fight again will they? Ethan would lose, obviously, but what’s stopping him from calling the cops on James? Oh Christ, he’s a wanted man, we can’t afford to have the police involved—_

 

“Fine.”

 

Your brain short circuits for a moment.  _What did he just say?_

 

“Fine, I’ll go.  But not before I talk to her.” 

 

You flinch, gasping out a puff of air that you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding.  James’ entire body stiffens in response to your own reaction, and you try not to flinch at the way that his hand grasps at your coat protectively.  He growls low in his throat and the metal in his arm lets out a frankly unsettling squeal.

 

“That wasn’t a _fucking_ option,” he fumes.

 

 _“James…”_ your voice is barely louder than an exhale, and while he would usually catch it, whatever anger is taking over him right now must be blocking it out.

 

“Then _make it_ a fuckin’ option,” Ethan retorts, his voice growing louder, angrier.  A muffled whimper jumps out of you.  Tears spring to your eyes and you start to shake, just like you’ve been conditioned to react whenever he’s taken that tone with you over the years.  James steps forward, the gears of his arms whining as he clenches his hand into a fist and pulls it back.

 

“James, please,” you murmur again, voice too weak to be heard yet again.  He doesn’t reply, but you feel the entire left side of his body lean forward.  You lunge out from behind him, grabbing at his wrist urgently.  _“Don’t!”_   Your voice bursts out of you, loud enough to echo, which surprises everyone including yourself.  Both men turn their eyes to you, James’ wide and cautious, Ethan’s cold and calculating.

 

“I’ll t-talk to him, it’s fine.”  You want to shrink in on yourself, especially with the way they’re both drilling holes into you with their stares, but you keep your footing.  You force yourself to hold James’ gaze, and you squeeze his wrist reassuringly.  “It’s okay,” you drop your volume, now whispering, speaking only to him.  “I’ve got this.”

 

It takes a few moments, but after a dense pause, he nods, eyes flickering around your face, searching for something.

 

“I’ve got _you.”_   He says it with so much conviction that you feel something in your chest flutter.

 

“I know.”

 

With a steadying sigh, you move forward on shaky legs, making your way towards Ethan, whose eyes refuse to leave you the entire time.  His expression is guarded, and his features are stony which does nothing but send a chill down your spine.  Usually when he was upset with you, you could tell.  He would yell or throw things or throw _you,_ so it was never a guessing game or a mystery—at least not for long.  You could always read him. 

 

So, it’s pretty understandable that the way that he’s coming across as completely fucking _un_ readable makes your blood run cold.

 

Tugging at the hem of your work skirt, you halt a few feet away from him, not confident that you can manage getting any closer without something happening.  You waste a few seconds fiddling with the fabric, refusing to look up just yet.  _I can do this, I’ve got this._ Exhaling slowly, you finally drag your eyes up to Ethan’s face, only to find him smiling at you.  It’s a smarmy grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, but all of his teeth are bared, like crocodile’s.

 

“Hey, baby,” he vaunts lowly, eyes twinkling with something chilling. 

 

“Hi.”

 

“You don’t want me to stay?  Don’t even wanna talk to me?”  He lets out an airy chuckle and it makes your gut roil.  You have to fight back the urge to gag.  _God, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._   The cocky smirk he’s wearing makes you wanna punch him.

 

Keeping your eyes focused just over his shoulder, past his head, you do your best to make a mental list of everything he’s done wrong to you, of every reason you’ve been given to want him nowhere near you.

 

“No, I really don’t,” you breathe, not trusting yourself to speak any louder. 

 

“Why not, Y/N?”  His voice drops as he takes a few steps towards you. 

 

Something in your mind yells at you to move back away from him, but your feet are glued to the ground.  Ethan must catch on to this because he moves even closer, crowding your space.  Your breath hitches when he brings his face within inches of yours. 

 

“Tell me.”

 

You feel your lashes start to twitch and heat prickles at the backs of your eyes.  _I can do this._  Setting your jaw and sighing through your nose, you fix Ethan with a withering glare.  He’s not your boyfriend anymore, not your ex-boyfriend, not your first love, hell he isn’t even a fucking _man_ anymore.  He’s the monster that’s made the last two years of your life _hell._

 

“Because you are a _villain,_ Ethan, and you—you’re _horrible_ and you _hurt_ me, and it’s not fucking okay!  A-And I’m done!”  The words come out broken and spluttery, but you don’t care, you power through.  “I _loved_ you,” you hiss, “and you _hurt_ me and then—then you had the nerve—the goddamned _nerve_ —to tell me you loved me too!  You’re a fucking liar, Ethan.  You’re a villain and a liar.” 

 

You don’t even realize that you’ve raised your voice until you’re done, and you feel a few tears fall free.  Swiping at them angrily you scowl up at Ethan, your jaw sore from clenching it so hard.  He at least has the decency to look contrite.

 

“Aw, Y/N/N,” he murmurs, lifting a hand towards you.  On a knee jerk reaction, you stumble back, raising a protective hand to your throat, hovering above your bruises.  His gaze follows the movement and you watch as his face falls. 

 

“Baby, I’m s-sorry.” 

 

You have to roll your eyes.

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

Done with the conversation, you glance back over your shoulder at James, not sure what you’re looking for from him, but knowing that seeing him will probably do something to ease your dashing pulse.  The second you find his gaze, however, you feel your chin being pinched, and your face is yanked back towards Ethan. 

 

“No, don’t you fucking look at him,” Ethan’s voice cuts at you, and his grip on your chin grows painful.  You gasp, your whole body locking up.  Within seconds, the sound of James’ angry arm grows closer to you, and you feel his body heat at your back, radiating rage like a deadly shadow.

 

“Remove your hand if you want to keep it,” he threatens in a voice so emotionless, it makes goosebumps break out across your skin. 

 

Ethan obliges slowly, squinting at you, daring you to do something, to say something.  He’s probably expecting you to jump to his defense, to throw yourself at his feet and kowtow—like you always did.  Unfortunately for him, you’re just about frozen with panic, so you couldn’t side with him even if you wanted to.

 

Fortunately for you, you also really don’t want to.

 

“You’re not gonna say nothin’?”  He asks you, hurt flickering in his deep sienna eyes.  Your empathy machine must be broken today, because all you do is shrug at him.  “Really?”  His voice cracks on the last word.  Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s betrayal, whatever it is, you can’t find it in you to care.

 

“Get your stuff and leave.  Sixty seconds.”  James’ voice comes from behind you again, and you don’t even have to turn to see him angrily clenching his fist.  The creak of his gears and the look on Ethan’s face says enough for you.  For a brief moment, he like he still wants to say more, but he must think better of it, because he rushes off into the apartment, grumbling under his breath.

 

Neither you nor James moves the entire time Ethan’s in there.  You remain standing as you were, legs shaky and stiff, with James just behind you, a breath away.  Focusing on his breathing calms you and honestly walks you back from the edge of a panic attack, and you once again find yourself drafting up a thank you speech for the man.

 

What you’d assume to be a minute later, Ethan reemerges through the still-busted doorway of the apartment, a bitter frown on his face and a large bag in his arms.  Throwing a miserable look your way, he sneers and turns to the elevator, prepared to leave.  Before he makes it, though, James steps into his personal space, towering over him and looking down his nose at him.

 

“Don’t let me see you around here again, da?”  That icy sharpness has returned to his voice, but Ethan just rolls his eyes.

 

“Whatever, I’m leaving.”

 

At Ethan’s dismissal, James’ metal arm shoots forward, buzzing threateningly, and yanking at his collar.  James lifts him bodily off of the ground, pulling him up until their eyes are even and Ethan’s feet are dangling inches above the ground.

 

“Yesli ty kogda-nibud' prikosnesh'sya k ney snova, ya ub'yu tebya.”  Whatever Russian threat he's spewing is delivered with a snarl, and James nonchalantly drops Ethan back to his feet, causing him to stumble and fall.  “Now go.”  The smaller man doesn’t need to be told twice, and he darts away, bypassing the elevator completely, instead scurrying down the stairwell.

 

Once he’s gone, you feel all of the tension and energy dissolve out of you, and you hunch over, wrapping your arms around your middle.  A dry sob crawls out of your throat and you cringe.  James is at your side straightaway, his flesh hand at your elbow, helping to hold you up.

 

“You okay?”

 

All you can do is nod, and pant breathlessly, bringing your eyes up to his.  “I’ve never, uh, never talked t-to him like that before.”  And in all honesty, you never could have pictured yourself doing it, not even in your wildest dreams.  The closest you’d ever gotten was the day he nearly killed you for it, so you’re walking on clouds right now.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” James murmurs, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.  “I’m proud of you, Y/N.”

 

“Shit, _thanks._   I was terrified,” you huff out. 

 

Straightening back up, you breathe deeply, trying to steady yourself.  James smiles down at you, the blue in his eyes coming back to the forefront as he looks at you patiently.  Running his thumb over your skin, he does that once over thing that he loves so much, checking you over, making sure that you’re okay.  Once he’s satisfied with what he sees, the tightness in his shoulders fades away, and he lets himself fully smile at you.

 

“You were really brave, doll, I hope you know that.” 

 

Scoffing, you smirk up at him.  “You’re not allowed to call me brave, Mr. World War 2.”

 

A hearty chuckle makes its way out of James’ chest and he rolls his eyes at your antics.  The two of you are back into that comforting rhythm again, and this time it feels like it might last longer than a day.

 

“I’m pretty sure that makes me the _most_ qualified to call you brave.”

 

“Whatever you say, geezer,” you giggle.

 

“Oh, wow, okay, that hurt!”  James throws his hand over his heart, face contorting in over dramatized offense. 

 

Laughter fills up the hallway as the two of you let relief and post-adrenaline-rush delirium flood over you.  Once it fades out, there’s a few moments of you two just looking at one another, eyes twinkling. 

 

James clears his throat gracelessly and breaks the silence.

 

“You, uh, you should still stay with me tonight, in my apartment.”  He ducks his head down almost bashfully and you see the tips of his ears take on the slightest tinge of pink.

 

“What?  He’s gone, James, you don’t need to—” he cuts off your retort.

 

“I’m not risking it, doll.  I can’t, especially not with your door—” he gestures vaguely at the mess of your door still laying in tatters on the ground _(maybe we should get that fixed)_ “—out of commission.”

 

You sigh, already feeling like you’re taking up too much of his space.  Before you respond, he implores again, this time giving you what could almost count as puppy dog eyes.

 

“Just… humor me?  It’s more for my peace of mind than anything, yeah?”

 

Something about his pleading tone, or maybe it’s the look on his face—hell, it’s probably both, let’s be honest—tugs at your heartstrings and you groan.

 

“Fine, but I’m not forcing you out of your bed again.  I’ll take the couch tonight.”

 

Those bright baby blues cut towards you playfully as another warm chuckle rumbles out of James’ chest.  Fishing his keys out of one of his pockets, he makes his way towards his apartment door.  Throwing a look at you over his shoulder, he smirks, tilting his head in invitation for you to follow him.

 

“Not likely, sugar.”

 

***

 

Steve can’t sleep that night.

 

There’s something sitting in his gut, like a fog cloud, lurking around his heart and making it hard for him to get comfortable

 

Tomorrow, he’ll be the closest he’s been to Bucky since that day on the quinjet, in the river.  Metaphorically, that is.  Whether they actually physically get to him tomorrow or not, they’ll be able to find this Y/N Y/L/N girl, and there’s no doubt in mind that she’ll be able to bring them to Buck.  Steve’s not sure enough about their relationship to know whether or not she’ll hand him over easy, but he’s never had a problem with a fight before, so why start now?  His brain’s running through hundreds of ‘what if’ situations, playing out all of the best and worst possible results of the day to come.

 

Best case scenario: the girl really is a civilian and she brings them straight to Bucky, and doesn’t put up a lick of a fight.  They get to him, and he comes with them peacefully, agreeing to abide by whatever rules Stark and the others decide to stamp on his file to keep him legal.  His best friend is still in there somewhere, and he gets him back.

 

That is, of course, the idyllic outcome.  It’s the one he’s hoping and praying for, _clearly._   This hoping and praying _by no means_ implies that the ‘everything goes wrong’ play through isn’t repeating on a loop in his head as well.

 

Worst case scenario: Bucky isn’t in there, he’s still the Asset, and that girl is Hydra.  This is all a trap to get Captain America into their grasps again in some grossly elaborate plan, and he’s walking right into it.  All of this was for nothing, and he’ll never get his best friend back.

 

That one makes Steve’s palms sweat and his stomach drop.  Times like these, he still feels the psychological effects of growing up with chronic illness, that weird ‘ghost pain’ he gets whenever he finds himself overwrought.  He feels a jerk in his lungs as if he’s just on the verge of having an asthma attack—despite knowing that it’s not possible anymore. 

 

Inhaling deeply and breathing out noisily to a ten count helps Steve soothe himself, but he still feels… _bad._   He’s getting that lingering sensation of still being gaunt and feeble.  _Helpless._

 

Flipping over restlessly, Steve does his best to ignore the groaning of his cheap bed frame.

 

Once they get Buck, they’ll be able to bring him in to the Avengers, and together they’ll all be able to figure out this absolute mess of a situation they’re all in.  His friends are hunting him because he’s hunting Bucky; as soon as he gets Bucky, they’ll stop trying to get him.  It’s simple math, really.

 

He can fix this.

 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve does his best to let the sounds of the city fade to static.

 

When he gets Bucky back, he’ll be okay again.  He’ll be back to who he was before everything went wrong and he ended up being the man out of time.  He can get back whatever fragments remain of that scrappy punk from Brooklyn.  He can have his best friend, his childhood, his _life_ back.  He needs to do this; he needs to get himself back.

 

“I can fix this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da? > yeah?
> 
> Yesli ty kogda-nibud' prikosnesh'sya k ney snova, ya ub'yu tebya > If you ever touch her again I'll kill you.


	21. Caught a Good Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America's sweetheart and his feathered friend set out on a mission. You and Rosalie do a shit job of making it easy for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just preface this with an apology because 1) I'm uploading _so_ late. I was busy all day yesterday and most of the week, so I wrote all of this in one go which leads us to 2) I didn't properly go back over this and edit it before posting so if there's a bunch of typos or it seems messy, that's why. Tomorrow, if I have time I'll come back and edit it so it's up to par !!! Sorry y'all  <3
> 
> (Title from _NFWMB_ by Hozier)

"You’re doing your grandpa frown again, dude, what’s on your mind?”

 

Sam’s voice shocks Steve out of his daze, causing the blond to stumble over his own feet, effectively putting an end to his pacing.  Wide blue eyes find Sam, who is leaning against the tiny bedroom’s door frame and grinning smugly.

 

“My what now?”  Steve straightens up with a sigh and looks dolefully towards his friend.

 

For the last twenty something minutes, Steve’s been busying himself with worrying, pacing, and worrying even more.  Today at noon, the pair plan on going down to the Alibi in the hopes of being able to catch Y/N there.  

 

“The grandpa frown,” Sam contorts his face into a cartoonish grimace, which Steve begrudgingly chuckles at.  “Your face is all scrunched up like you’re reflecting on all of the flaws of today’s youth.”  Another light laugh makes its way out of Steve’s chest as he rolls his eyes and turns away.  Focusing his gaze on the tiny digital clock sitting atop his dresser, he sighs.  They’ve got a little less than half an hour before they need to leave in order to make it down to the restaurant during the peak of lunch rush.

 

“We’ve got to head out soon,” he mumbles.  Sam does his best not to sigh at the puppy-dog face his friend is pulling.

 

“Dude, it’ll be alright.”

 

“You say that but I’m… I'm still worried.”

 

This time Sam doesn’t bother holding back his weary exhale.  “You’re always worried, Steve, maybe elaborating would help.”  As he speaks, he moves into the room, plopping down onto Steve’s springy mattress with a huff.

 

“Har, har, you’re hilarious.”  Rubbing his hands over his face, Steve leans back against his wall opposite where Sam is.  He shakes his head slowly with his gaze trained on the floor before replying.  “I’m just scared we won’t get him—again.  We’ve gotten so close so many times, and I can’t help but feel like this one’s gonna be just like the others.”

 

After spending months floating through Europe, following any trails they could find of Bucky, they ended up in Bucharest.  Steve swears on his life he saw the man at a fruit stand in town, but by the time he and Sam got to where he was spotted, there was no trace.  That disappointment eventually brought them back stateside, where they spent a year and a half combing through every city, county, and cornfield for their all-too-intangible friend.

 

The haunting shadows under Steve’s eyes are running proof of this.

 

“This is our most solid lead yet, Cap.”  Sam’s voice has taken on a softer tone.  “We’ve got him this time.”

 

Steve shrugs helplessly, his frown deepening.

 

“I dunno, I just—what if he’s not… what if he’s not, y’know...  _him?_ ”  His voice crackles out at the end, and it nearly breaks Sam’s heart on the spot. 

 

Getting up off of the bed and moving over to his friend, Sam lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

 

“Then we’ll deal with it.  We’ve got this, right?”

 

Steve huffs out a sigh and nods.

 

“Yeah, we’ve got this.”

 

***

 

Rosie’s wiping down table seven with a damp cloth when she notices an unserved customer in her section.  She makes quick work of the table, and hurries to drop off her rag and the dish bucket in the kitchen.  Swiping her hands off on her apron, she makes her way back out to the main room and approaches her customer.

 

Her attention focused on the small notepad in her hands, scribbling down the table number as she speaks.

 

“Welcome to the Alibi!  My name’s Rosalie, and I’ll be your server tod—” her jaw drops as she finally meets the gaze of the man at the table.  Clear blue eyes meet hers, and she recognizes him immediately, seeing him on TV too many times to count.  “Holy _shit,_ you’re Captain America!”

 

Much to his dismay, her voice raises in both pitch and volume as she speaks and he winces.  Bowing his head, he tries to hide his face beneath the bill of his baseball cap.  Frowning, Rosie glances around the room, lowering her voice and stepping closer to the booth.

 

“Should I not…?  You aren’t supposed to be here, are you?”  It’s like the man physically shrinks at her words, and she steps even closer, dropping her voice to nearly a whisper.  “I heard about the Accords.”

 

That must get his attention because Captain America _—Captain Rogers? Mister Cap? Captain Steve?—_ lifts his head again.  He seems to be avoiding direct eye contact, but he does seem willing to talk, at least.

 

“Um,” he licks his lips.  “I’m actually here looking for someone.  _Y/N Y/L/N?_   She works here, I think.”

 

That completely throws Rosalie for a loop.

 

Sputtering, she leans against the opposite side of the booth, green eyes wide with confusion.  “Y/N?”  Captain Rogers nods.  “Why the—what does… is she in trouble?”

 

“So, you know her?”  He sits up straighter, his interest apparently piqued.

 

“She’s my best friend… why are you looking for her?”

 

“I need to, uh, talk to her.”

 

Rose squints.

 

“…About what?”

 

His eyes flicker away from hers for a split second, but it’s long enough to unsettle her.  _This doesn’t feel right… why would an Avenger be looking for Y/N?_

 

Something about his body language makes Rosie’s hackles raise.  Her eyes dart around the room briefly before she slowly slides into the seat across from him.  Silently sending up a prayer that Cason doesn’t catch her slacking off on the job, she sets her notepad on the table and holds the Captain’s stare.

 

“Captain Rogers, what is this about?”  Her tone is sharp, but the apprehension gripping at her heart has her words wobbling.

 

He clears his throat awkwardly and licks his lips again.  _Well if Captain Fucking America is nervous, then so the hell am I._   Rose shifts forward in her seat, waiting tensely for him to answer her.

 

“I need to… ask her about a man that she knows.”

 

Rose does the math quickly—either he’s looking for Ethan or James. 

 

“What man?”

 

The Captain shakes his head solemnly, not breaking eye contact.  A stern frown finds its way to his face.  “I can’t tell you that.”  He shrugs up his shoulder, giving Rosie a look that she can’t quite distinguish.

 

She lets out a rather unladylike snort and rolls her eyes.  This must catch him by surprise because his head bops backwards like he’s been struck.  Rosalie gathers up her pen and notepad before standing. 

 

“Listen Captain.”  Rosalie pauses to smooth out her skirt, and she speaks to him in a low voice, doing what she can to sound threatening.  “I get that you’re important or whatever, but from what I’ve seen on the news?  You’re a damned disaster magnet, and a fugitive at the moment, if I’m not mistaken.” 

 

She throws him a contemptuous look, raising a brow and pursing her lips.  He just stares back dumbly, his mouth agape. 

 

“That’s what I thought.  Now, Y/N is sweet and hardworking, and she’s been to hell and back.  If any harm comes to that girl, because of whatever trouble you’re trying to bring down on her head, I’ll have your neck over it, national fucking icon or not.  Capiche?”

 

The clock on the wall ticks loudly as the two maintain eye contact and silence hangs between them. 

 

Slowly, the Captain nods, still seemingly unable to form words.

 

“Perfect,” Rose quips, a polite smile suddenly lighting up her face.  “Now.  Would you like to hear about today’s specials?”

 

***

 

“You really don’t have to come again, James.”  You’re gathering up your phone and checking your purse to double check that you’ve packed your wallet.

 

“I swear I’m not playing bodyguard, doll.  I just… like spending time with you.”  His softened tone catches you by surprise and you turn around to face him, only to find him shyly ducking his head.  Ignoring the heat that you feel rising to your cheeks, you sigh.

 

“You’re gonna be bored.”

 

“I’ll bring a book.”

 

“You’re…” you fight against the smile you feel tugging at your lips, but it wins out.  “You’re insufferable.”

 

James scoffs.

 

“I’m a catch!”

 

Rolling your eyes, you turn and make your way out of his apartment, and then the building, with James at your heels the whole time.  You walk in companionable silence with him, shoulder to shoulder, admiring the mid-morning hustle and bustle of the city around you.

 

The two of you are barely a block away from the restaurant when your phone buzzes in your bag.  Pulling it out, you glance down to see that it’s a text from Rosalie, and you automatically swipe at the screen to unlock.

 

_**Rosie:** Wanna tell me why Captain America is looking for you?_

 

You nearly trip over your own two feet. 

 

_What the fuck?_

 

James catches your reaction and stops next to you, his brow furrowed.

 

“Doll, you okay?”

 

You don’t respond to him right away, just tap out a reply on your phone, which you’re currently death gripping between your clammy hands.

 

_**Me:** What the fuck???_

 

James—bless him—gently grips your elbow and pulls the both of you away from the middle of the sidewalk, allowing the rush of people to pass around you.  You look up at him finally.  His face is still crumpled up into a concerned mask.  At whatever look he must see on your own face, his expression hardens, and he moves closer to you.

 

“What is it?”

 

Your phone buzzes again and you look back to it, reading the new message that’s popped up.

 

_**Rosie:** Purple Muscles Majesty is sitting at booth three asking for you by name. Explain?_

 

“At the—Captain Rogers is at the Alibi,” you choke out after a moment.  “He’s asking for _me…_ ”

 

James steps back and nearly stumbles, but rights himself instantly.  He spins around, looking towards the restaurant frantically, before grabbing your elbow again and leading you towards an alleyway a few yards away.  It all happens so fast, it makes you sway like you were lifted off your feet and set back down.

 

“James, what do we—I don’t know what to…” you trail off once he starts pacing, immediately recognizing the panicked look on his face.  You can just make out the sound of his arm making an angry little noise at his side, and you step forward.  “Hey, hey, look at me,” you insist.  You prop a hand against his chest both as a way of stopping him as well as soothing him.

 

“Christ,” he mutters angrily.  Scrunching his eyes shut, he drops his head and lets out a hiss through his teeth.

 

“Look at me, James,” you plead again.

 

He opens his eyes and they meet yours, and you can easily read the pain in them.  It doesn’t take more than a millisecond for you to come to a decision.

 

“Listen to me.  He’s looking for me, right?  Which means that he knows that _I know_ where you are.”  Your eyes drop to his chest and you frown as you try to think of the best way to go about this.  _Obviously, James can’t come with me to work, but the Captain probably knows my address by now which means he can’t go back to the apartment either…_

 

A car horn sounds around the corner of the alleyway exit, and it’s like a bulb lights up above your head.

 

“Remember the café across the street from the restaurant?  The little French one.”  James nods slowly, not understanding where you’re going with this.  “You go there and I’ll see what he wants.” 

 

You’re barely done with your sentence before he’s started to shake his head.

 

“No, doll, no way.  We know what he wants, and we know he’s willing to break laws to get to me.  I’m not letting you go in there without me,” he argues.  His flesh hand comes up to wrap loosely around your wrist and he uses it to press your palm firmer against his chest.

 

“Yes, you are,” you retort, clenching your hand into a fist.  “You’re going to let _me_ do this, because it’s going to keep _you_ safe.”

 

“Y/N—”

 

You interrupt him by stepping back and breaking contact.  At his confused expression, you shove your phone into his hand.

 

“Take my phone, alright?  If anything happens, I’ll text you from Rosie’s phone or have her text you.”  Your tone ticks up with expectation.  “I know you’re thinking about keeping me safe, but sucks for you, because it’s _my_ turn to look out for you.”

 

“Y/N…”

 

“It’ll be alright, I promise.”

 

You give him your best reassuring smile, not sure if it’s reaching your eyes or not, but hoping so.  His expression softens as he looks down at you.  With a sigh, he tucks your phone into his jacket pocket.

 

“Just… just _please_ be safe,” he intreats.

 

Leaning up on your tiptoes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.

 

“I will.”

 

With that, you hurry out of the alleyway and down the street towards the restaurant.

 

***

 

You notice Captain Rogers instantly.

 

The second you step foot into the restaurant, your eye is drawn to him.  Despite the baseball cap that he’s wearing pulled low over his face, you can tell that it’s him.  The insultingly broad shoulders and movie star jawline make it pretty damn obvious.  He’s hunched over a steaming mug of what you can safely assume to be coffee. 

 

For some reason, a figure at the bar across the room catches your attention as well.  You see that a similarly dressed man with dark skin seems to be looking in your direction.  The instant he notices you noticing, however, he smoothly shifts his eyes past you and towards another server, raising his hand towards them to catch their attention.

 

Squinting, you drop your head and stare at your feet as you speed walk to the work room in the back, knowing you’ll find Rosie waiting for you in there.

 

“Care to explain?”

 

Her voice comes from the table to the right of the lockers and you sigh, eyes wide.  Standing up, she comes over to the lockers, leaning against her own as she watches you place your belongings into yours.

 

“I will later, I swear, but I just—what did he…what’d he say?  What does he want from me?”  You’re a bit out of breath from running most of the way here, and you feel positively frazzled.  Using the tiny mirror on the inside of your locker door, you try and fix your hair and readjust the small silk scarf around your neck (which’ll probably be a fashion staple for you until these bruises fade).

 

“He said he wanted to talk to you, about a friend of yours, a guy,” she intones, her attitude dark.  “Is there something you need to tell me?  Something you’re involved with I should be worried about?”

 

“Well n-no, not technically, no.”

 

“That is quite literally the _least_ comforting thing you’ve ever said to me.”  She deadpans.

 

“I know!  I’m sorry, I promise I’ll explain eventually, I just,” you finish in the mirror and turn to her, meeting her eyes.  You can feel the conflicted look on your face.  “Just let me handle this, let me… talk to... to Captain America." You breathe out heavily and stare up at her.  "Damn, now _that’s_ a sentence I never thought I’d speak.”

 

***

 

“Um… Captain Rogers?”

 

His head lifts and he looks up at you, a flash a recognition rushing over his features.  You offer a weak smile and a wave when all he does is stare.

 

“I, uh, I was told you wanted to talk—um, to talk to me?”

 

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he states, both his voice and face void of emotion.

 

“The one and only.”  You try for a jokey tone, but in actuality it comes out tense and high pitched.  An awkward pause follows.  “Okay, well, um,” you mutter, sliding onto the creaky vinyl of the booth seat.  “I’m guessing if a couple of Avengers are asking for me by name, something important is going on.

 

Captain Rogers looks surprised for a moment before he trains his face back into a stern frown.

 

“A _'couple?'”_   He echoes you, suspicion creeping into his voice.

 

“Your friend at the bar, the Falcon, right?”

 

You gesture vaguely towards the bar where the man you’d seen earlier is sitting.  He must sense yours and the Captain’s attention on him, because he glances up right at that moment.  A cheeky grin graces his features and he offers a simple two-fingered salute your direction before turning back to his drink.

 

“You’re… perceptive.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m a woman in New York City.  It’s kind of a survival tactic.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Another awkward pause.  God, if this gets any weirder, you’ll put your head through the table.  You clear your throat to break the tense silence before speaking again.

 

“So, uh, what law did I break that warranted you two to be called in?”

 

At that, the Captain has the grace to huff a chuckle.  It doesn’t sound like the most genuine of laughs, but you’re glad to have gotten a reaction other than staring and squinting.

 

“A friend of yours is an old friend of mine.”  He states it so simply that you almost want to giggle at the oddity of the situation.  This century old symbol of freedom is questioning you to find his childhood best friend, a century old war veteran.  What is your life?

 

“That’s… a little vague, Captain.  Mind dropping a name or two?”  You try to keep a polite smile on your face and a coy intonation in your voice.  You know he knows, but maybe you can convince him that you know less than you actually know.

 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current fugitive of the law.”  The delivery is so flat you want to lean away from him, in case he suddenly snaps, but you keep your reactions as composed as possible.

 

“Well that is,” you pause to suck your teeth and shrug, “quite a few names.  Not ringing any bells though.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“Am I?”

 

You do your best to ignore the way that your heart starts beating faster and harder.  _It’s fine, just play a few circles.  Let him lead the conversation._   With a flourish, Captain Rogers pulls out a file, flipping it open and laying it flat.  Right at the top of it, you see what looks like your driver’s license picture, paper clipped to a stack of documents. _Shit._

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

He flips back the papers to reveal two glossy black and white photos of…

 

_Oh._

 

It’s you and James.

 

“Oh.”

 

Your palms start to sweat.  He has you cornered, and he knows it.

 

“Your cooperation would really be appreciated ma’am.”

 

Your focus snaps from the photographs to the Captain’s face.  Your cooperation?  Is he bringing him in?  Oh shit, maybe this is one of the Accords conditions…  You suddenly find yourself wishing that you’d paid more attention when the news was covering the new superhero law.

 

Leaning back against the booth, you tilt your head to the side and squint.  You don’t respond.

 

This must not be what he's expecting from you, because he frowns even deeper, and folds his hands on the table in front of him.  The movement pushes his elbows apart, effectively making the broadness of his shoulders all too obvious.  _Is he trying to intimidate me…?_

 

“Do you know the things he’s done?”  You do what you can to keep yourself in check, you really do, but your eye twitches and it must give you away.  “You do.  So, you must know what he’s capable of?”  His tone is condescending, like an adult telling a child not to run with scissors, and it makes your jaw clench. 

 

You still withhold a response.

 

“You _do_ realize that you can be charged with aiding and abetting him, right?  He’s killed a lot of people.”

 

His entire approach is confusing the fuck out of you.  Wasn’t he James’ best friend?  Shouldn’t he understand why he did the things he did?  This doesn’t make any sense to you and it’s putting you more and more on edge. 

 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you narrow your eyes at the Captain.

 

“Who’s to say I don’t have plausible deniability?  What makes your word better than anybody else’s?  This could be hearsay for all I know.”

 

Thank god in heaven above for procedural cop shows. 

 

You may not have used the right technical language or whatever the hell, but it sure did sound like it.  It must convince Captain Rogers well enough, because his mouth opens and closes for a moment as he fishes for something to say.

 

“You’re protecting him," he speaks slowly, carefully.  "Why?”

 

The hostility and suspicion that had previously soiled his attitude seems to have melted away, now replaced with genuine curiosity and what almost sounds like concern.

 

A few beats pass before you sigh and lean forward, folding your hands in front of you to mirror his position.

 

“I’m not letting you get near him if all you’re going to do is throw him into a little cell, schoolyard friend or not.  He’s had _well_ enough of that, and we both know it.”

 

Your assertiveness catches him by surprise and he leans away, back thumping against the booth cushion.  His baby blue gaze stays locked on yours for a moment longer before he looks back at the table.  Consternation casts a shadow over his face when he reaches forward to fold the manila folder shut.

 

“I’m not going to do that to him.”  His voice is soft, and he almost sounds pained as he speaks, which further confuses you, but you stand your ground.

 

“Right, and I know that how?”

 

The look he gives you next is damn near pathetic, it’s so sad looking.

 

“I guess… you just have to trust me,” he mumbles.

 

Something in your heart really does want to trust him.  Maybe it’s the born and bred American in you knowing this man to be the country's golden boy, maybe it’s the fact that you've been around for him saving the city and the world a dozen times, or maybe it's that puppy-dog look on his face.  Whatever it may be, it isn’t motivation enough for you to risk James’ safety or even think about betraying his trust.

 

Shifting forward even more, you lean closer to him, a grimace on your face.

 

“Captain Rogers, I trust a whole two people on this great, green earth, and you just so happen to be threatening me with _jail time_ to get to one of them.”  You emphasize your words with a sharp jab of your index finger against the tabletop.  “I just don’t like that math, sorry to disappoint.”

 

Without waiting for him to respond, you stand from the table, turning your back on him.  You’re already a few steps away when you hear him call your name.

 

“Y/N, please, just…”  You turn around, arms crossed, your face the perfect expression of someone who’s done.  “Just take my number, yeah?” 

 

He offers a small white piece of card stock, a business card.  Part of you wants to laugh at the idea of Captain America having a fucking business card, but you think better of it.  Taking the small card between your fingers, you give it little more than a glance before tucking it into the front pocket of your apron.

 

“Just… hear us out, okay?  I just want to talk to him.”

 

He sounds genuine, you can’t deny that.  Just something about the way he’s gone about this feels wrong… you wouldn’t know what a trap felt like, but you doubt the situation would seem all that different.

 

“I’ll think about it.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m at work.”

 

***

 

“I like her,” Sam quips, shoving another bite of lo mein into his mouth.  He glances up to see Steve fixing him with a venomous glare.  “Wha’?!”

 

Steve just shakes his head and sighs, fiddling with an egg roll on his plate.  “I don’t know, I just… something feels off about it.”

 

At that, Sam scoffs around his mouthful of food—rather impolitely—and waves a hand at Steve dismissively.

 

“You’re just mad that she Cap’d you,” he jibes with a nonchalant shrug.

 

“She _what’d_ me?” 

 

Steve’s starting to get just a little bit fed up with all of these weird references and jokes.  If Sam wasn’t so good natured about it, it would start to feel a little patronizing.  Ironically enough, Wilson manages to always make Steve feel in on the jokes, even if they are about him.

 

“She pulled a Cap.  She told you to your face that she was planning on doing the exact opposite of what you asked her to do.” 

 

Steve’s jaw drops and his eyes go wide. 

 

“Wh-?  I don’t do that,” he rebuts indignantly.

 

“Yes, you do, Steve.”

 

“No, I don’t!”

 

“You literally do, but okay,” Sam throws his hands up in an attempt to appease his friend.  “Touchy subject, it’s whatever.”  Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s still tense, and it’s written all over his face.  Setting down his plate, Sam turns to him.  “Okay, what’s goin’ on in that stubborn head of yours?”

 

Steve follows Sam’s lead and sets his food down as well, leaning back in his chair with a frown.

 

“I’m curious about… her.  Y/N.  She said she knows what Bucky’s done and what he’s capable of—and she didn’t even seem fazed about it.  She was attached, and defensive.”  Chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully, his forehead creases as he thinks back on the conversation he’d had with her.

 

Sam interrupts his train of thought when he speaks up.

 

“This Barnes guy must really be somethin’, man.”  He reaches for his plate and starts eating again.  Steve looks towards him, bemused.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” he pauses to swallow his mouthful of food, “that he’s got you and Little Miss Lawless willing to spend your golden years in federal prisons just to protect him.”

 

Silence falls over the two as they continue their dinner, the only noise in the room being the soft droning of the news anchor coming from the TV in the corner.  Once they’ve made it through their meals and started to pick up and throw away their trash, Steve finally breaks the silence.

 

“Okay, name _one_ time I’ve… _‘pulled a Cap’_.”

 

Sam lets out an indignant squawk.

 

“Well, you’ve only done it about, uhm, three _billion_ times in the few years that I’ve known you, dude.  _Let’s see—"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this chapter!!! Let me know how you all feel about the way I've written Stevie Boy, I know I made him kinda a jerk but I promise I love him all the same lol.


	22. Simple Phrases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the conversation you had with Captain Rogers, you relay the information to James; the ball is in his court now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma keep it real with u... most of this was written at like 2am and I was half asleep. I hope it isn't too underwhelming kjdljds~ also it's a lot shorter than the last couple of chapters because it's kind of an in between sequence, if that makes sense.
> 
> (Title from _Doubt_ by Twenty One Pilots)

When you get back to the apartment building, James is waiting in the lobby for you.

 

He’s leaning against the wall between the stairwell entrance and the elevators, a pinched expression on his face.  The way he’s stood in the corner, that frown on his face, with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched imparts an intense atmosphere in the room.  As you move towards him, he looks up, his gaze falling on you, and his face lights up for only a moment before falling back into a brooding mien.

 

“Y/N, are you okay?  What did he—did it go alright?”  His words come out in a jumble, unsure of what he wants to say first.  To ease him in the best way you can, you offer up a gentle smile.

 

“I’m fine, it’s fine, everything’s okay.  Let’s get up to the apartment before we talk, yeah?”

 

He nods enthusiastically, anxious to hear everything.  

 

After the conversation you’d had with the Captain, you’d texted James through Rosie’s phone to let him know that Rogers wanted to meet with him and talk, but he hadn’t given you much information on just what he was planning on discussing.  Knowing that the lack of information made you anxious, it’s a wonder James hadn’t shattered to shards with the waiting and the anticipation building.

 

By the time the two of you are settled on the sofa, James is a proper mess.  He keeps running his flesh hand over the front of his thighs, presumably drying away the clamminess.  He hasn’t spoken aside from his original panicked questions in the lobby, and neither have you, so you decide to break the silence gently.

 

“Where’s your head at right now, J?”  You keep your voice soft, in an effort to keep his anxiety at a minimum.  Frantic gray eyes shoot up to yours, and he shrugs jerkily.

 

“I’m…I’m afraid, I guess.  Worried. ‘Dunno…”

 

It’s like you’re watching him shut down, and it makes something in your gut start to ache.

 

“Okay, well, let me tell you everything he said and maybe we can… get rid of some of that worry?  It went… better than I was expecting, if that helps.”  What you don’t say is that you were half expecting for Captain America to escort you out of the Alibi in handcuffs, but that’s beside the point.  

 

Your fingers twitch, nagging at you to reach out and touch him, but you know it’s probably best to wait until he’s not as… keyed up.

 

“Y-Yeah that’s—let’s do that.”  

 

The breath he lets out after he speaks is one of preparation.  He turns towards you slightly, focusing all of his attention on you.  You let out your own quiet puff of air and reflect back on the conversation you’d had with the Captain, doing what you can to recall every table.

 

“Well let’s start with him having told me that, um,” you pause and squint down at your lap, trying to remember his exact words.  “He’d said that ‘a friend of yours is an old friend of mine’, which, I mean. _Obviously,_ that’s you.  He was trying to get me to tell on myself I guess, by being vague, but then he practically spelled out your name, rank, and social, which turned the tables. And then um…”  For some reason thinking back on the way that you’d played dumb has a wave of embarrassment coming over you. Your face heats up as you glance up at James, only to see him staring at you his brow furrowed.

 

“What’s wrong?”  He asks carefully.

 

“I had, uh—I pretended not to know who he was talking about.  I thought if… I dunno what I was thinking, actually,” you mutter the last bit, huffing a self-deprecating laugh.  Fidgeting with your scarf, you shake your head. “It wasn’t the _best_ plan.”  James gives you a strange look.

 

“No, it was smart.  If he’d been unsure about anything, it might have thrown him off.  It was good thinking, doll.” He offers a small smile, which has a flush taking over your face for an all new reason now.

 

“Well, good.  Um… next he’d caught me lying, so,” you laugh again, and shrug.  “He had a file—a folder and it was…” an uncomfortable feeling coils through your gut as you realize exactly what had happened.  “He had _my_ file, it had all my information and my photo, and… my entire history, I’m guessing, _Christ,_ that’s creepy.”

 

It hadn’t occurred to you back at the table that they’d found your work and your name, all from those grainy ass traffic cam photos.  Well they are the Avengers, so it shouldn’t surprise you, but the fact that it was so easy for them… what _don’t_ they know about you?  You shudder.

 

James is still quiet across from you, but his expression is one of understanding.  You take his silence as an invitation to continue.

 

“Um, in it there was these pictures of us, I’m guessing they’re from traffic or security cameras?  It looked like it was us walking down the street. Probably on the way to work? I didn’t get—I didn’t get a great look at them.  Then, um...”

 

You’re fiddling with your scarf even more now, and it’s starting to tug at your skin and irritate your bruises. Bringing your hands down to your lap, you furrow your brow again and try to focus on what had happened next.  When it comes to you, your breath catches, which effectively bothers James.

 

“What?”  His tone isn’t sharp, really, but it isn’t as gentle as you’re used to hearing it.

 

“He was trying to get a rise out of me, I guess, but he was talking about you like…” the anger bubbling up in your chest steals away the rest of your sentence.  “I got so _mad,_ I barely remember, god.”  You’re shaking your head now, seeing that stupid look on the Captain’s face, the way he was so smug, so excited he’d had you backed into a corner.  He was _so_ confident you’d hand James over right then.

 

“He called you a fugitive, and kept asking me if I knew what you’d done, and what you were capable of.  He told me I could get arrested for aiding and abetting you. He was so fucking… it was like he was talking about a common criminal.”  

 

Your words are more strained now and your eyes start to sting.

 

“Why the hell would he talk about you like that? Doesn’t he know what you went through?  How the fuck—how could he talk like that?”

 

Your gaze finds his again, and now it’s you that’s got a wildness in your eyes.  James, on the other hand, just looks… resigned. There’s a dormant anger sitting just beneath his skin, you can see it, but it’s like he’s actively repressing it.  His jaw is clenched, and his arm is humming lowly, but that cold expression remains unruffled.

 

“What else did he say…?”  The words come out rough, through gritted teeth.

 

You know that if _you_ were angry about the Captain’s reaction, then James is bound to be pissed, heartbroken, and betrayed, if nothing else.  The fact that Rogers had approached you so bogusly, acting like he was just looking for an old friend, only to call that same friend a felon—well that just made your skin crawl.  Especially with the way he…

 

“Well then he,” you lick your lips and frown.  “He had, like, completely switched. When I still refused to help him or whatever, he got… confused?  Like he couldn’t understand why I was defending you.” The Captain had changed his entire attitude once met with your own less-than-pleased disposition, and his reaction was odd to say the least.  “In fact, he had asked me why I was protecting you, like he couldn’t believe it. But it wasn’t the same as before; he seemed concerned, I think. Worried, maybe?”

 

Dissecting the conversation like this feels like rereading a chapter of a book.  

 

Suddenly the way that the talk had ended is making more sense.  Captain Rogers was sussing you out, trying to figure out who you were and why you were with James.  It’s fair, in all honesty, considering the only people who had had contact with him in the last seventy years had been goddamned Nazis.  He might have been testing your loyalty just as well, which also makes sense.

 

You’re completely caught up in your thoughts by this point, not catching the way that James seems to be falling into some strange state of dissociation.

 

“I told him I wouldn’t turn you over if he was just planning on throwing you in a cell and he said he wouldn’t do that, that he wanted me to trust him…”  You remember the feeling you’d gotten when he’d asked that of you, that instinctive desire to trust. “I got pretty rude with him, I guess, and then he’d given me his card, told me to hear them out.”  

 

You finally look back up at James.

 

“He said he just wants to talk to you.”

 

It’s like he snaps back to reality right as you speak.  His eyes find yours once again, the blue returning to them, and his expression is one of confusion.

 

“He wants to talk to me?”  You nod. “About what?” His voice is so small, so hesitant, that it breaks your heart a little.  Scooting closer to his side, you reach a hand up and lay it on James’ shoulder, feeling the grooved outline of the star resting there.

 

“I don’t know for sure, but he gave me his number.”  You reach down into your purse, where you’d tucked the card away hurriedly when you’d rushed out of work earlier in the evening.  Smoothing out a crease in it, you hold it out to James. It takes a few moments of suspended pause before he reaches up with his flesh hand and takes it gently.

 

He brings the small piece of paper before him, his eyes never leaving it.  You watch as he releases a shuddering breath, watch his lips move as he murmurs Captain Rogers’ name to himself.  You can just about see the wheels turning in his head as he does his thing: information gathering, analyzing, and synthesizing.  His head tilts to the side a fraction of an inch and he lets out a sharp sigh through his nose before finally speaking up again.

 

“We should call him.”

 

There’s a finality to the statement and his steadfastness is surprising, especially after the stifling reluctance you’d seen in him not even five minutes ago.  You’d been hoping for this response from him, and you’d be lying if you were to say it didn’t make you a little proud.

 

“Okay,” you respond, an encouraging smile on your face.

 

“What do you wanna say?”

 

***

 

“She said they want to meet,” Steve groans, flopping back onto the couch.

 

“Okay…” Sam draws out the word.  “Well what did _he_ say?”  He’s leaning his elbows on his knees, his body slumped forward in his chair after spending the last ten minutes doing what he could to eavesdrop on Steve’s half of the phone call.

 

“Well, uh,” Steve sighs and rubs his hand over his face.  The exhaustion and stress are catching up to him, and with this new break, it’s a wonder he hasn’t outright collapsed yet.  “Bucky didn’t… he didn’t talk, actually. But I could tell he was there. She kept hesitating before answering, probably looking to him for answers.”

 

From the angles that they’re situated in, Sam doesn’t have the clearest view of Steve’s face, but he can just make out a grimace on his features.

 

“And that has your face screwed up like you smell something bad because…” he trails off expectantly and Steve rolls his eyes at the teasing tone.

 

“I just—I wanted to talk to him, and I thought that she would be able to give me that, at the least.”  The frustration is clear in his voice.

 

Sam sighs.

 

He was honestly expecting this.  He was sure from the moment he saw those pictures of Barnes and the girl together that they’d be close, in one way or another, meaning she’d definitely end up being defensive of him.  This means he also mentally prepared for the inevitable fit that Cap would throw the moment he realized that Bucky’s priority wasn’t what he wanted it to be: him.

 

It would be unfair to call Steve selfish, because he isn’t.  He’s not running away, breaking laws, and abandoning the Avengers for the sake of his own gain.  He’s doing it to keep his oldest friend safe and protect him after finding out that the _one time_ he hadn’t saved him, he’d ended up in the most dangerous hands he could have landed in.

 

Sam knows that before Barnes came back, before the Winter Soldier became a part of Steve’s life, Steve was just barely on the verge of properly adjusting.  Obviously the whole “everyone you know is dying or dead” thing was a shock, as well as _‘the world as you knew it is gone, good luck in this one, champ’._  Steve was finally getting adjusted, visiting Peggy, figuring a way to properly mourn his family, discovering himself in the 21st century.

 

And then the Winter Soldier happened.

 

Sam’s profession calls for him being able to identify PTSD, to be able to help out with it, to assist progress, to recognize relapses.  The way that Steve reacted after he found out the Soldier’s identity may just be the worst yet most composed form of relapse he’s ever seen.

 

From the outside, the naked eye wouldn’t be able to tell that he wasn’t determined, he was desperate.  He came across as a man with a plan, someone who was dogged to save someone, to rescue a friend.

 

Sam’s trained eye can see that that’s not the case.  Steve turned finding Barnes and bringing him in, keeping him safe, into some kind of last-ditch attempt to regain his sense of self.  Barnes is the last remnant of Steve’s pre-war life that he’s got left to hold onto, to look at and know that this life he’s in is real.

 

Steve’s said himself before that he finds himself waking up, making it through the day, and going back to bed, convinced the entire occurrence was just a dream.  He can’t attach himself to today, because he was frozen for the last sixty yesterdays. He doesn’t know who he is, he can’t connect to where or when he is, and it’s getting worse.

 

Sure, the Avengers have been there for him, and he cares for them, trusts them, has their back, but he’d done all of that out of obligation.  Hell knows what he’d been doing if Fury hadn’t approached him, the man probably thought that becoming one of earth’s mightiest heroes was the only purpose he had.  When the soldier showed up and Steve found out his actual identity, it’s like he suddenly figured out what he was here for. Barnes has so far been the only grounding force for Steve.

 

It isn’t really about Barnes anymore, though, is it?

 

“You’ll be able to talk to him when we meet.  You got a time and location?”

 

Steve nods, raising his phone so Sam can see the screen and wiggling it.  It’s open to a text conversation with Y/N.

 

“She sent an address.”  His tone is tired and his hands fall back onto his stomach.  “Dusk tomorrow.”

 

Sam nods, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

 

“Dusk, it is.”

 

***

 

Bucky has trouble sleeping that night, spending hours tossing and turning on the couch.

 

He can’t get the conversation you’d had with Steve out of his mind.  Both of them, to be exact.

 

The one at the table, when Steve had been aggressive and threatening to you.  A part of him refuses to believe that Steve, Stevie, his best friend, would do that to you.  Then again, Buck has no clue what Steve’s seen since he got off the ice. The last interaction the two had was a gory fistfight, so there isn’t much evidence for Bucky to do a full personality analysis.

 

Then there was the phone call.  That damned call.

 

You had put the phone on speaker so Bucky could hear both sides of the conversation, but you had told him not to talk, so that Steve thought it was just he and her speaking.  There’s a slim chance he actually believed it, but the effort was there.

 

The whole call, you had been determined and serious, and Buck had been a little in awe.  Your attitude towards Steve was brisk, professional, and straightforward. You asked Steve what he wanted, what he wanted with Bucky, and you told him that you would organize a meeting point.

 

Steve’s voice through the phone was crackly and distant, the connection bad.  Despite that though, Buck could hear the exhaustion and just sadness in his old friend’s voice.  It was like he didn’t think that you’d actually show up with Bucky, and he was convinced that it was all a ruse.  

 

_“Is he… is he okay?  Safe?”_

 

When Bucky’d heard the concern in Steve’s voice, it sent him back to when they were little, when Steve would catch Buck on a bad day and ask him if he was alright, and never take ‘fine’ for an answer.  

 

He feels a tug in his chest and he flops over, tucking his metal arm underneath the pillow.

 

They’re gonna see each other face to face tomorrow, for the first time since… the incident.  For the first _real_ time since the war.  They’re going to have to see each other, really see each other, in their new lives—their lives without each other.

 

If that doesn’t make Bucky’s sleep run away from him even more, then who knows what would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was alright kfjsfj I'm not that confident in how this came out but I hope y'all liked it <3


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